
( FT MEADE 

! GenCoIl 


FITCH’S POPULAR LIBRARY 


NEW 


CULTURE, FAITH AND PHILOSOPHY 


IN AN ENGLISH COUNTRY HOUSE, 


AUTHOB OP “THE NEW PATIIj AND VIKGINIA. 


GEORGE W'. FITCH, PUBLISHER 


00 Andrews St., Roohestee, N. Y 

1879. 



Qass 
Book 

William Lukens Shoemaker 


pza 


By bequest of 



















I'HE NEW REPUBLIC, 


— OR— 


OULTUEE, FAITH AND PHILOSOPHY 


IN AN ENGLISH COUNTEY HOUSE, 


BY W. H. MALLOCK, 

AUTHOR OF “THE NEW PAUL AND VIRGINIA/* 



ROCHESTER, N. Y.: 

GEO. W. FITCH, PUBLISHER, 60 ANDREWS ST. 

1879. 





> J 


PUBLISHER’S PREFACE. 



Believing that this “remarkable book” will be more interesting to every reader 
if the true names of the several leading characters are known, the Publisher inserts 
the following, taken from a prominent English Keview : 

“ Everybody knows The New Republic for a very clever and sufficiently reckless bit 
of literary caricature ; but everybody does not know, I take it, the originals of the 
famous set of poets, philosophers, critics, and dilettanti that are posed therein for the 
delectation of all the World and his Wife. Here is a list that should enable the 
^ veriest Philistine to feel at home in such goodly and aesthetic company : — Storka, 
Professor Huxley ; Stockton^ Professor Tyndall ; Herbert, Professor Kuskin ; Donald 
Gordon, Thomas Carlyle ; Jenkinson, Professor Jowett ; Mr. Luke, Mr. Matthew Ar- 
nold ; Saunders, Professor Kingdon Clifford ; Rose, Mr. Walter H. Pater ; Leslie, 
Mr. Hardinge ; Seydon, Dr. Pusey ; Lady Grace, Mrs. Mark Pattison ; Mrs. Sinclair', 
Mrs. Singleton, (Violet Pane.) 

Gift 

W. 

7 S 'OS 


THE NEW REPUBLIC 


BOOK I. 

CHAPTEK I. 

Towakds the close of last July, when 
the London season was fast dying of the 
dust, Otho Laurence had invited what the 
Morning Post called a ‘select circle of 
friends,’ to spend a quiet Sunday with him 
at his cool villa by the sea. 

This singular retreat was the work of a 
very singular man, Otho Laurence’s uncle, 
who had squandered on it an immense for- 
tune, and had designed it as far as possi- 
ble to embody his own tastes and charac- 
ter. He was a member of a Tory family 
of some note, and had near relations in 
both Houses of Parliament ; but he was 
himself possessed of a deep though quiet 
antipathy to the two things generally most 
cherished by those of his time and order, 
the ideas of Christianity and Feudalism ; 
and he studiously kept himself clear of all 
public life. Pride of birth, indeed, he had 
in no small measure ; but it was the pride 
of a Homan of the Empire rather than of 
an Englishman ; a pride which, instead 
of connecting him with prince or people, 
made him shun the one as a Cresar, and 
forget the other as slaves. All his pleas- 
ures were those of a lettered voluptuary, 
'who would,' as he himself said, have been 
more in place under Augustus or the An- 
tonines ; and modern existence, under 
most of its aspects, he affected to regard 
as barbarous. Next to a bishop, the thing 
he most disliked was a courtier ; next to 


a courtier, a fox-hunting country gentle- 
man. But nothing in his life, perhaps, 
was so characteristic of him as his leaving 
of it. During his last hours he was soothed 
by a pretty and somewhat educated house- 
maid, whom he called Phyllis, and whom 
he made sit by his bedside, and read aloud 
to him Gibbon’s two chapters on Christi- 
anity. Phyllis had just come to the cele- 
brated excerpt from Tertullian, in which 
that father contemplates the future tor- 
ments of the unbelievers, when the parish 
clergyman, who had been sent for by Mr. 
Laurence’s widowed sister-in-law, arrived 
to offer his services. ‘How shall I ad- 
mire ’ * — these were the words that, read 
in a low sweet tone, first greeted his ears 
when he was shown softly into the sick 
chamber — ‘ how shall I admire, how laugh, 
jiow rejoice, how exult, when I behold so 
many proud monarchs, so many fancied 
gods, groaning in the lowest abyss of dark- 
ness ; so many magistrates who i3ersecuted 
the name of the Lord, liquefying in a 
fiercer fire than ever they kindled against 
the Christians !’ The clergyman was at 
first much reassured at hearing words so 
edifying ; but when he turned to old Mr. 
Laurence, he was dismayed to see on his 
pale face, no signs of awe, but only a faint 
smile, full of sarcastic humour. He there- 
fore glanced at the book that was lying on 
the girl’s la23, and discovered to his hor- 
ror the work of the infidel historian. He 
was at first struck dumb ; but, soon re- 


* 


Vide Gibbon's Decline and Fall, chapter xv. 


4 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


covering himself, began to say something 
suitable at once to his ovn profession and 
to the sick man’s needs. Mr. Laurem*e 
answered him with the greatest courtesy, 
but with many thaTiks declined any as- 
sistance from him ; saying wistfully that 
lie knew he had not long to live, and that 
his one wish was that he could oi)en his 
veins in a bath, and so fade gently into 
death ; ‘ and then,’ he added, ‘ my soul, if 
I have one, might perhaps be with Petro- 
nius, and with Seneca. And yet sleep 
would, I think, be better than even their 
company.’ The poor clergyman bade a 
hasty adieu, and Phyllis resumed her read- 
ing. Mr. Laurence listened to every word : 
the smile returned to his lips that had for 
a moment left them, and Avas still upon 
them when, half-an-hour afterwards, he 
died, so quietly that Phyllis did not i3er- 
ceive it, but continued her reading for 
some time to ears that could hear nothing. 

All his iDroperty he left to his nei^hew 
Otho, including his splendid vdlla, Avhich 
was indeed, as it was meant to be, a type 
of its builder. It Avas a house of pillars, 
lAorticoes, and statues, designed ambi- 
tiously in Avhat was meant to be a classi- 
cal style ; and though its splendours 
might not be all perhaps in the best taste, 
nor eA^en of the most strictly Roman pat- 
tern, there Avas yet an air about its mere- 
tricious stateliness by Avhich the days of 
the Empire Avere at once suggested to one, 
a magnificence that Avould at any rate have 
j^leased Trimalcio, though it might have 
scandalised Horace. 

Otho Laurence inherited Avith his uncle’s 
house something of the tastes and feelings 
of which it Avas the embodiment. But, 
though an epicure by training and by 
temper, he had been oi^en to other influ- 
ences as Avell. At one time of his life he 
had, as it is exi)ressed by some, experi- 
enced religion ; and not religion only, but 
thought and speculation also. Indeed, 
eA^er since he Avas twenty-four, he had been 
troubled by a painful sense that he ought 


I to have some mission in life. The only 
I difiiculty Avas that he could find none that 
j Avould suit him. He had considerable 
natuial powers, and Avas in many Avays a 
remarkable man ; but, unhappily, one of 
tho5?e Avho are remarkable beca;use they do 
not become famous, not because they do. 

He Avas one of those of Avhom it is said 
till the}" aj’e thirty, that they Avill do some- 
thing ; till they are thirty-fiA-e, that they 
might do something if they chose ; and 
^fter that, that they might have done any- 
thing if they had chosen. Laurence Avas 
as yet only three years gone in the second 
stage, but such of his friends as Avere am- 
bitious for him feared that three years 
more would find him landed in the third. 

He, too, Avas beginning to share this fear ; 
and, not being humble enough to desiiair 
of himself, Avas by this time taking to des- 
pair of his century. He Avas thus hardly 
a hajApy man ; but, like many unlia2y)y 
men, he Avas capable of keen enjoyments. 
Chief amongst these Avas society in certain - 
forms, esjAecially a party in his oAvn house, 
such as that which he had now assembled 
there. To this one in particular he looked 
forward Avith more than usual iileasure, 
jAartly because of the peculiar elements j 
Avliich he had contrived to combine in it, 
but chiefly because amongst them Avas to , y 
be his friend Robert Leslie, Avho had been ' 

living abroad, and Avhom he had not seen / 

for two years. 

Laurence’s aunt. Lady Grace, heljAed to 
receive the guests, avIio by dinner-time on 
Saturday evening had all arrived. Robert 
Leslie Avas the last. The dressing-bell had 
just done ringing as he drove uja to the 
door, and the others had already gone uji- ' 
stairs ; but he found Laurence in the 
library, sitting Avith his head on his hand, | 
and a pile of men ?;-cards on the desk be- i 
fore him. The tAvo friends met with much 
Avarmth, and then examined each other’s 
faces to see if either had changed. 

‘You told me you had been ill,’ said > 
Laurence, liaAdng again looked at Leslie, 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


5 


‘and I am afraid you don’t seem quite 
well yet. ’ 

‘You forget,’ said Leslie, whose laugh 
was a little hollow, ‘ that I was on the sea 
six hours ago ; and, as you know, I am a 
wretched sailor. But the worst of human 
maladies are the most transient also — love 
that is half despairing, and sea-sickness 
that is quite so. ’ 

‘I congratulate you,’ said Laurence, 
again examining his friend’s face, ‘on 
your true cynical manner. I often thought 
we might have masters in cynicism just as 
we have masters in singing. Perhaps I 
shall be able to learn the art from you.’ 

‘ Oh !’ said Leslie, ‘ the theory is simple 
enough. Find out, by a little suffering, 
what are the things you hold most sacred, 
and most ffrmly believe in, and, whenever 
an occasion offers, deny your faith. A 
cynic is a kind of inverted confessor, 2>er- 
petually making enemies for the sake of 
what he knows to be false.’ 

‘ Ah !’ said Laurence, ‘ but I don’t want 
theory. I know what is sacred just as well 
as you, and, when I am beast enough to 
be quite out of tune with it, I have the 
good sense to call it a 23 hantom. But I 
don’t do this with sufficient energy. It is 
skill in cynical i 3 ractice I want — a les- 
son in the 2)ungent manner — the bitter 
tone ’ 

‘ Then jjlease not to take your lessons 
from me,’ said Leslie. ‘ Imitation may be 
the sincerest flattery, but it is, of all, the 
most irritating : and a cynic, as you are 
good enough to call me, feels this es^jeci- 
ally. For a cynic is the one j^reacher, 
remember, that never wants to make con- 
verts. His aim is to outrage, not to con- 
vince : to create enemies, not to conquer 
them. The peculiar charm that his creed 
has for him, is his own peculiarity in hold- 
ing it. He is an acid that can only fizz 
with an alkali, and he therefore hates in ! 
others what he most admires in himself. ! 
Bo if you hear me say a bitter thing, please ! 
be good enough to brim over immediately ; 


j with the milk of human kindness. If I 
I say anything disrespectful about friend- 
I shi^), i^lease be good enough to look hurt ; 
I and if I ha^Dj^en to say — what is the chief 
' 2)art of the cynic’s stock-in-trade — that no 
woman was ever sincere or faithful, I trust 
I you have some lady amongst your visitors 
! Avho will look at me with mournful eyes, 

I and say to me, “ x\h, if you did but 
I know !” ’ 

I ‘ Well,’ said Laurence, ‘ i^erhajDs I have ; 
but, talking of what 2)C02>le are to say, I 
have something here about which I want 
you to help me. You see these cards ; 
they are all double. Now that second half 
is for something quite new, and of my own 
invention. The cook has written his i 3 art 
already, so you need not look so alarmed ; 
but he has only i)rovided for the tongue 
as a tasting instrument ; I am going to 
provide for it as a talking one. In fact, I 
am going to have a menu for the conversa- 
tion, and to this I shall make everyone 
strictly adhere. For it has always seemed 
absurd to me to be so careful about what 
we i 3 ut into our mouths, and to leave 
chance to arrange Avhat comes out of them; 
to be so ijarticular as to the order of what 
I we eat, and to have no order at all in what 
we talk about. This is the case esj^ecially 
in parties like the jjresent, where most of 
the i^eojfle know each other only a little, 
and if left to themselves would never touch 
on the to2)ics that would make them best 
acquainted, and best bring out their sev- 
eral 2)ersonal flavours. That is what I 
like to see conversation doing. I ought 
to have written these menus before ; but I 
have been busy all day, and, besides, I 
wanted you to helj) me. I was just be- 
ginning without you when you arrived, as 
I could wait no longer ; but I have i 3 ut 
down nothing yet : indeed I could not fix 
ujion the first tojiic that is to corresiiond 
Avith the soup — ;the first vernal breath of 
discussion that is to open the buds of the 
shy and strange souls. So come, now — 
what shall Ave begin Avith ? What Ave Avant 


6 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


is something that anyone can talk easily 
about, whether he knows anything of it or 
not — something, too, that may be treated 
in any way, either with laughter, feeling, 
or even a little touch of temi^er. ’ 

‘ Love, ’ suggested Leslie. 

‘ That is too strong to begin with,’ said 
Laurence, ‘and too real. Besides, intro- 
duced in that way, it would be, I think, 
rather common and vulgar. No — the only 
thing that suggested itself to me was re- 
ligion. ’ 

‘ Nothing could be better in some ways,’ 
said Leslie ; ‘ but might not that, too, be 
rather strong meat for some ? I appre- 
hend, like Bottom, that “the ladies might 
be afeared of the lion.” I should sug- 
gest rather the question, “ Are you High- 
church or Low-church ?” There is some- 
thing in that which at once disarms rev- 
erence, and may also just titillate the 
interests, the temper, or the sense of 
humour. Quick,’ he said, taking one of 
the cards, ‘ and let us begin to write. ’ 

‘Stop,’ said Laurence ; ‘not so fast, let 
me beg of you. Instead of religion, or 
anything connected with it, we will have, 
“What is the Aim of Life ?” Is not this 
the thing of things to suit us ? About 
what do we know less or talk more ? 
There is a Sphinx in each of our souls 
that is always asking us this riddle ; and 
when we are lazy or disappointed, Ave all 
of us lounge up to her, and make languid 
guesses. So about this we shall all of us 
have plenty to say, and can say it in any 
Avay we like, flippant, serious, or senti- 
mental. Think, too, how many avenues 
of thought and feeling it opens up I Evi- 
dently the “Aim of Life ” is the thing to 
begin with.’ 

Leslie assented ; and before many min- 
utes they had made the menu complete. 

The ‘ Aim of Life ’ was to be followed 
by ‘Town and Country,’ which was de- 
signed to introduce a discussion as to 
Avhere the Aim of Life was to be best 
attained. After this, by an easy transi- 


tion, came ‘ Society ;’ next by way of 
entrees f ‘Art and Literature,’ ‘LoA^e and 
Money,’ ‘Biches and Civilisation;’ then 
‘The Present,’ as something solid and 
satisfying ; and lastly, a light superfluity 
to dally with, brightly coloured and un- 
substantial, Avith the entremets came ‘ The 
Future. ’ 

‘And Avho is here,’ said Leslie, as they 
AA^ere ending their labours, ‘ to enjoy this 
feast of reason ?’ 

, ‘I Avill tell you,’ said Laurence. ‘In 
the first iDlace, there is Lady Ambrose, a 
Avoman af a very old but poor family, aa Iio 
has married a modern M.P. Avith more than 
a million of money. She is A^ery particu- 
lar about knoAving the right people, and 
has lovely, large grey eyes. Then there 
is Miss Merton, a Boman Catholic young 
lady, the daughter of old Sir Ascot Mer- 
ton, the horse-racing evangelical. I knew 
her well five years ago, but had not seen 
her since her conversion, till to-day. Then 
Ave have Dr. Jenkinson, the great Broad- 
church divine Avho thinks that Christianity 
is not dead, but changed by himself and 
his folloAvers in the tAvinkling of an eye.’ 

‘I met Dr. Jenkinson,’ said Leslie, 
‘just before I Avent abroad, at a great 
dinner given by Baron Isaacs, in honour 
of his horse having won the Derby. — 
Well — and Avho else is there ?’ 

‘ Tavo celebrated members of the Boyal 
Society,’ said Laurence ; ‘ no less persons 

than But, good gracious ! it is time Ave 

Avere up-stairs dressing. Come along di- 
rectly, and I Avill explain the other people 
to you before dinner. ’ 


CHAPTEK II. 

It was half-past eight, and the party 
were fast assembling in the twilight draAv- 
ing-room. Leslie Avas lounging in one of 
the windoAvs, by a large stand of flowers 
and broad-leaved plants, anti was studying 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


7 


the company witli considerable interest. 
His first impression was of little more than 
of a number of men’s dark coats and white 
shirt-fronts, tables, couches, and gilded 
chairs, and the i^leasant, many-coloured 
glimmerings of female aj^parel. But be- 
fore long he had observed more minutely. 
There were men who he instinctively felt 
'were celebrities, discoursing to grou;^s of 
ladies ; there were ladies who he at once 
saw were attractive, being discoursed to 
by groups of men. He very soon detected 
Lady Ambrose, a fine handsome woman of 
perhaps thirty, with the large grey eyes of 
which Laurence had spoken, and a very 
clear complexion. Leslie was much pre- 
possessed by her frank manner, and by 
her charming voice, as she was talking 
with some animation to a tall distinguish- 
ed-looking young man, whose fine fea- 
tures, keen earnest glance, and thoughtful 
expression prej)ossessed him still more. 
Forming a third in this group, dropping 
in a word or two at intervals, he recognized 
the celebrated Dr. Jenkinson — still full of 
vigour, though his hair w^as silver — the 
sharp and restless sparkle of '\^diose eyes, 
strangely joined with the most benevolent 
of smiles, Leslie remembered to have no- 
ticed at Baron Isaacs’ festival. He had 
just identified Lady Ambrose and the Doc- 
tor, when Laurence came up to him in the 
window, and began to tell him who was 
who. 

* Dr. Jenkinson is the only one I know,’ 
said Leslie, ‘and, naturally enough, he 
forgets me.’ 

‘Well,’ said Laurence, ‘that man by 
himself, turning over the books on the ta- 
ble — the man with the black whiskers, 
spectacles, and bushy eyebrows — is Mr. 
Storks of the Boyal Society, who is great 
on the physical basis of life and the imag- 
inative basis of God. The man with long 
locks in the window, explaining a micro- 
scope in so eager a way to that dark-haired 
girl, is Professor Stockton — of the Royal 
Society also ; and member and president 


of many Societies more. The girl — child, 
ratlier, I ought to call her — that he is 
talking to, is Lady Violet Gresham — my 
second cousin. You see my aunt, the old 
lady with grey curls, on the ottoman near 
the fire-place ? Well — the supercilious- 
looking man, talking rather loudly and 
rather slowly to her about the dust in 
London, is Mr. Luke, the great critic and 
apostle of culture. That, too, is another 
Clitic close by him — the pale creature, with 
large moustache, looking out of the win- 
dow at the sunset. He is Mr. Rose, the 
pre-Raphaelite. He always speaks in an 
undertone, and his tw^o topics are self-in- 
dulgence and art. The young man there 
with Lady Ambrose and Dr. Jenkinson, is 
Lord Allen. He is only two or three-and- 
twenty ; still, had you been in England 
lately, you would often have heard his 
name. He has come early into an im- 
mense property, and he yet is conscious 
that he has duties in life. But,’ said 
Laurence, sighing, ‘ he too feels, as I do, 
that he has fallen on evil days, in which 
there can be no peace for us — little but 
doubt and confusion, and what seems to 
me a losing battle against the spiritual 
darkness of this world. However — that 
red-headed youth thinks very differently. 
He is Mr. Saunders from Oxford, supposed 
to be very clever and advanced. Next him 
is Donald Gordon, who has deserted deer- 
stalking and the Kirk, for literature and 
German metaphysics.’ 

‘And who is that,’ said Leslie, ‘the 
young lady with those large and rather 
sad-looking eyes, and the delicate, proud 
mouth ?’ 

‘ Which ?’ said Laurence. 

‘ The one on the sofa, ’ said Leslie, ‘ who 
looks so like a Reynolds portrait — like a 
duchess of the last century — the lady in 
the pale blue dress, talking to that man 
with such a curiously attractive smile and 
the worn melancholy look ?’ 

‘ That, ’ said Laurence, ‘ is Miss Merton. 
I am glad you admire her. And don’t you 


8 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


know who it is she is talking to ? He is al- 
most the only man of these days for whom 
I feel a real reverence — almost the only 
one of onr teachers who seems to me to 
speak with the least breath of inspiration. 
But he is too impressionable, perhaps — too 
much like me, in that way. And now, as 
the years come, it seems that hope is more 
and more- leaving him, and things look 
darker to him than ever. That is Her- 
bert. ’ 

‘ Herbert !’ exclaimed Leslie, ‘ so it is. 
I thought I recollected the face. I have 
heard him lecture several times at the 
Royal Institution ; and that singular voice 
of his, which would often hold all the the- 
atre breathless, haunts me still, sometimes. 
There w^as something strange and aerial in 
its exquisite modulations, that seemed as 
if it came from a disconsolate spirit, hov- 
ering over the waters of Babylon, and 
remembering Sion. I can’t tell exactly 
why it was that — but, ah ! my dear Lau- 
rence — who is this, that is coming into 
the room now — this lovely creature, with 
a dress like a red azalea ? What speaking 
eyes ! And what hair, too — deep dead 
black, with those white starry blossoms in 
it. I don’t think I ever saw anyone move 
so gracefully ; and how proudly and jDi- 
quantly she poises 

On her neck the small head buoyant, like a 
bell-flower on its bed ’’ 

‘That,’ said Laurence, when Leslie had 
done, ‘ is Mrs. Sinclair, who has published 
a volume of poems, and is a sort of fash- 
ionable London Sappho. But come, — we 
shall be going into dinner directly. You 
shall have Lady Ambrose on one side of 
you, and shall take in Miss Merton. ’ 


CHAPTER III. 

Latjeence, though he had forewarned 
his guests of his menu before they left the 


drawing-room, yet felt a little anxious 
when they sat down to dinner ; for he 
found it not altogether easy to get the 
conversation started. Lady Ambrose, who 
was the first to speak, began somewhat off 
the point. 

‘ What a charming change it is, Mr. 
Laurence,’ she said, ‘ to look out on the 
sea when one is dressing, instead of across 
South Audley Street !’ 

‘ Hush !’ said Laurence softly, with a 
grave, reproving smile. 

‘ Really, ’ said Lady Ambrose, ‘ I beg 
your pardon. I thought Dr. Jenkinson 
had said grace.’ 

‘ If he has, ’ said Laurence, ‘ it is very 
good of him, for I am afraid he was not 
asked. But wdiat I mean is, that you 
must only talk of what is on the cards ; so 
be good enough to look at your menu, and 
devote your attention to the Aim of Life. ’ 

‘Really, this is much too alarming,’ 
said Lady Ambrose. ‘ How is one to talk 
at so short a notice on a subject one has 
never thought about before ?’ 

‘ Why, to do so, ’ said Laurence, ‘ is the 
very art of conversation ; for in that way, 
one’s ideas spring up fresh like young 
roses that have all the dew on them, in- 
stead of having been kept drying for half 
a lifetime between the leaves of a book. 
So do set a good exami^le, and begin, or 
else we shall never be started at all ; and 
my pet plan will turn out a fiasco.’ 

There was, indeed, as Laurence said 
this, something very near complete silence 
all round the table. It was soon broken. 

‘ Are you High-church or Low-church ?’ 
was a question suddenly uttered in a quick 
eager girl’s voice by Miss Prattle, a young 
lady of eighteen, to the astonishment of 
the whole company. It was addressed to 
Dr. Jenkinson who was sitting next her. 

Had a pin been run into the Doctor’s 
leg, he could not have looked more as- 
tounded, or given a greater start. He 
eyed his fair questioner for some time in 
complete .silence. 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


9 


• Ca.n YOU tell me the difference ?’ he 
said at last, in a voice of considerable 
good humour, yet with just a touch of ^ 
sharpness in it. • j 

‘I think,’ said Miss Merton, who was 
sitting on the other side of him, ‘ that my I 
card is a little different. I have the “Aim 
of Life ” on mine, and so I believe has 
everybody else.’ I 

‘ Well,’ said the Doctor, laughing, ‘ let 
us ask Miss Prattle what is her aim in 
life.’ j 

‘Thank Heaven,’ said Laurence, ‘Dr. 
Jenkinson has begun. I hope we shall all 
now follow. ’ 

Laurence’s hoi3e was not in vain. The 
conversation soon sprang up everywhere ; 
and the company, though in various hu- 
mours, took most of them very kindly to 
the solemn topic that had been jjut before 
them. Mr. Luke, who was sitting by 
Mrs. Sinclair, was heard in a loudish voice i 
saying that his own favourite Muse had 
always been Erato ; Mr. Pose had taken a 
crimson flow^er from a vase on the table, 
and, looking at it himself with a grave 
regard, was pointing out its infinite and 
passionate beauties to the lady next him ; 
and Mr. Stockton was exj^laining that the 
Alps looked grander, and the sky bluer 
than ever, to those who truly realised the 
atomic theory. No one, indeed, was silent 
except Mr. Herbert and Mr. Storks, the 
former of whom smiled rather sadly, 
Avhilst the latter looked about him with 
an inquisitorial frown. 

Laurence was delighted with the state 
of things, and surveyed the table with 
great satisfaction. Whilst his attention 
was thus engaged, Lady Ambrose turned 
to Leslie, and began asking him if he had 
been in town much this season. She was 
taken with his look, and wished to find 
out if he w ould really be a nice person to 
like. 

‘Please,’ interposed Laurence pleading- 
ly, ‘ do try and keep to the point — please. 
Lady Ambrose. ’ 


‘ I want to find out Mr. Leslie’s aim in 
life by asking him wdiere he has been,’ she 
answ’ered. 

‘I have been in a great many places,’ 
said Leslie, ‘ but not to pursue any end — 
only to -try and forget that I had no end 
to pursue. ’ 

‘ This is a very sad state of things,’ said 
Lady Ambrose ; ‘ I can always find some- 
thing to do, except wdien I am quite alone, 
or in the country wdien the house is emi)ty. 
And even then I can make occupation. I 
draw, or read a book, or teach my little 
boy some lessons. But come — wdiat do 
you think is the real aim of life ? — since 
that is what I must ask him, is it not, Mr. 
Laurence ?’ 

‘ Don’t ask me,’ said Leslie ; ‘ I told you 
I hadn’t a notion ; and I don’t suppose w e 
any of us have.’ 

‘That can’t be true,’ said Lady Am- 
brose, ‘for just listen how everyone is 
talking. I w'iirh wm could hear wdiat they 
w'ere saying. You might learn something- 
then, perhaps, Mr. Leslie, since you are 
so very ignorant.’ 

It happened that, as Lady Ambrose said 
this, the conversatien suddenly flagged, 
and Laurence took advantage of the lull 
to ask if any satisfactory conclusions had 
been come to during the past five minutes, 

‘ because w^e up here,’ he said, ‘are very 
much in the dark, and want to be en- 
lightened. ’ 

‘Y^es,’ said Mr. Storks gruffly, ‘has any 
one found out w^hat is the aim of life V’ 
As he said this he looked about him defi- 
antly, as though all the others were butter- 
flies, that he could break, if he chose, upon 
his w heel. His eye at last lit upon Mr. 
Saunders, who, considering this a chal- 
lenge to himself, immediately took U23 the 
gauntlet. The young man spoke w-ith the 
utmost composure, and, as his voice w'as 
high and piercing, everybody could hear 
him. 

‘The aim of life,’ he said, adjusting his 
spectacles, ‘ is progress. ’ 


10 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


‘ What is progress ?’ interrupted Dr. 
Jenkinson coldly, without looking at Mr. 
Saunders, and as though any answer to 
his question was the last thing he expected. 

‘Progress,’ replied IMr. Saunders slow- 
ly, ‘ has been found, like poetry, somewhat 
hard to define.’ 

‘Very true,’ said the Doctor drily, and 
looking straight before him. 

His accents were of so freezing a sharp- 
ness that he seemed to be stabbing Mr. 
Saundei’s with an icicle. Mr. Saunders, 
however, was api^arently quite unwounded. 

‘But I,’ he continued with the utmost 
complacency, ‘ have discovered a defini- 
nition which will, I think, meet with 
general acceptance. There is nothing 
original in it — it is mei’ely an abstract of 
the meaning of all our great liberal think- 
ers — progress is such improvement as can 
be verified by statistics, just as education 
is such knowledge as can be tested by 
examinations. That, I conceive, is a very 
adequate definition of the most advanced 
conception of progress, and to persuade 
people in general to accept this is at pres- 
ent one of the chief duties of all earnest 
men. ’ 

‘ Entirely true !’ said Mr. Herbert, with 
ironical emj)hasis ; ‘ an entirely true defi- 
nition of progress as our age prizes it. ’ 

Mr. Saunders was delighted, and, im- 
,agining he had made a disciple, he turned 
to Mr. Herbert and went on. 

‘ For just let us,’ he said, ‘ compare a 
man with a gorilla, and see in what the 
man’s superiority lies. It is evidently not 
in the man’s ideas of God, and so forth — 
for in his presumable freedom from these 
the gorilla is the superior of the man — but 
in the hard and verifiable fact, that the 
man can build houses and cotton-mills, 
whereas the highest monkey can scarcely 
make the rudest approach to a hut. ’ 

‘ But can you tell me,’ said Mr. Herbert, 
‘ supposing men some day come to a state 
in which no more of this progress is j^os- 
sible, what wull they do then ?’ 


Mr. Mill, whom in almost all things I 
revereiu'o as a supreme authority,’ said 
Mr. Saunders, ‘asked himself that very 
question. But the answer he gave him- 
self was one of the few things in which I 
venture to dissent from him. For, when 
all the greater evils of life shall have been 
removed, he thinks the human race is to 
find its chief enjoyment in reading Words- 
worth’s poetry.’ * 

‘Indeed !’ said Mr. Herbert; ‘and did 
Mill come to any conclusion so sane as 
that ?’ 

‘I, on the contrary, believe,’ Mr. Saun- 
ders went on, ‘ that as long as the human 
race lasts, it will still have some belief in 
God left in it, and that the eradication of 
this will afford an unending employment 
to all enlightened minds.’ 

Leslie looked at Lady Ambrose, expect- 
ing to see her smile. On the contraiy she 
was very grave, and said, ‘ I think this is 
shocking.’ 

‘Well,’ said Laurence in a soothing 
tone to her, ‘ it is only the way of these 
young men in times of change like ours. 
JBesides, he is very young — he has only 
just left Oxford ’ 

‘If these irreligious view's are to be 
picked up at Oxford,’ said Lady Ambrose, 

‘ I shall be obliged to send my little boy, 
when he grows up, to Cambridge. And 
as for wdiat you say about “ times of 
change ” — I am not a conservative, as you 
know' — indeed, I quite go in for reform, as 
my husband does : but I don’t think re- 
ligion ought to be dragged into the mat- 
ter. ’ 

‘Well,’ said Laurence, ‘ let ns listen to 
what Lord Allen is saying.’ 

‘J/eissure,’ said Lady Ambrose, ‘not 
to say anything but what is nice. ’ 

Allen was speaking in a low tone, but 
his voice w^as so clear that Lady Ambrose 
was quite able to hear him. 

‘ To me it seems,’ he was saying, blush- 


* VideJ, S. Mill’s Autobiography. 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


11 


ing a little as~ lie found suddenly how 
many people were listening to him, ‘ that 
the aim of life has nearly always been 
plain enough in a certain way — always, 
and for all men ’ 

‘ Indeed ?’ said Mr. Saunders, raising 
his eyebrows. 

‘Yes,’ said Allen, slightly turning to- 
wards him, and raising his voice some- 
what. ‘ It has been, I think, as a single 
magnet, acting on all, though uijon many 
by repulsion. It is quite indescribable in 
words. But there are two things by which 
yon can tell a man’s truth to it — a faith in 
God, and a longing for a future life. ’ 

‘Lord Allen,’ exclaimed Mr. Herbert, 
and the sound of his voice made everyone 
at once a listener, ‘ that is very beautifully 
put ! And it is, indeed, quite true, as you 
say, that the real significance of life must 
be for ever indescribable in words. But, 
in the present day, I fear also that for 
most of us it is not even thinkable in 
thought. The whole human race,’ he 
went on in measured melancholy accents, 

‘ is now wandering in an accursed wilder- 
ness, which not only shows us no hill-top 
whence the promised land may be seen, 
but which, to most of the wanderers, 
seems a promised land itself. And they 
have a God of their own too, who engages 
now to lead them out of it if they will only 
follow him : who, for visible token of his 
Godhead, leads them with a pillar of cloud 
by day, and a pillar of fire by night — the 
cloud being the black smoke of their fac- 
tory chimneys, and the fire the red glare 
of their blast-furnaces. And so effectual 
are these modern divine guides, that if we 
were standing on the brink of J ordan it- 
self, we should be utterly unable to catch, 
through the fire and the smoke, one single 
glimpse of the sunlit hills beyond.’ 

Mr. Herbert said these last words almost 
fiercely ; and they were followed by a com- 
plete hush. It was almost directly broken 
by Mr. Bose. 

‘To me,’ he said, raising his eyebrows 


wearily, and sending hia words floating 
down the table in a languid monotone, 
‘ Mr. Herbert’s whole metaphor seems 
misleading. I rather look upon life as a 
chamber, which vve decorate as we would 
decorate the chamber of the woman or the 
youth that we love, tinting the walls of it 
with symphonies of subdued colour, and 
Ailing it with works of fair form, and with 
flowers, and with strange scents, and with 
instruments of music. And this can be 
done now as well — better, rather — than at 
any former time : since we know that so 
many of the old aims were false, and so 
cease to be distracted by them. We have 
learned the weariness of creeds ; and know 
that for us the grave has no secrets. We 
have learned that the aim of life is life ; 
and what does successful life consist in ? 
Simply,’ said Mr. Bose, speaking very 
slowly, and with a soft solemnity, ‘ in the 
consciousness of exquisite living — in the 
making our own each highest thrill of joy 
that the moment offers us — be it some 
touch of colour on the sea or on the 
mountains, the early dew in the crimson 
shadows of a rose, the shining of a wo- 
man’s limbs in clear water, or ’ 

Here unfortunately a sound of ‘ ’Sli ’ 
broke softly from several mouths. Mr. 
Bose was slightly disconcerted, and a 
pause that would have been a little awk- 
ward seemed imminent. Laurence, to pre- 
vent this, did the first thing that occurred 
to him, and hastily asked Dr. Jenkinson 
what his view of the matter was. 

The Doctor’s answer came in his very 
sharpest voice. 

‘ Do auy of us know what life is ?’ he 
said. ‘ Hadn’t we better And that out 
first ?’ 

‘Life,’ continued Mr. Bose, who had 
now recovered himself, ‘ is a series of mo- 
ments and emotions. ’ 

‘ And a series of absurdities too, very 
often,’ said Dr. Jenkinson. 

‘Life is a solemn mystery,’ said Mr. 
Storks, severely. 


12 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


‘ Life is a damned nuisance, ’ muttered ' 
Leslie to himself, but just loud enough to 
be heard bj Lady Ambrose, ^vho smiled 
at him with a sense of humour that won 
his heart at once. 

‘Life is matter,’ Mr. Storks went on, 

‘ which, under certain conditions not yet 
fully understood, has become self-con- 
scious.” 

‘ Lord Allen has just been saying that it 
is the preface to eternity,’ said Mr. Saun- 
ders. 

‘Only, unfortunately,’ it is a preface 
that we cannot skij^, and the dedication is 
generally made to the wrong i)erson. ’ 

‘ All our doubts on this matter, ’ said Mr. 
Saunders, ‘are simply due to that dense 

1) estiferous fog of crazed sentiment that 
still hides our view, but which the present 
generation has sternly set its face to dispel 
and conquer. Science will drain the 
marshy grounds of the human mind, so 
that the deadly malaria of Christianity, 
which has already destroyed two civilisa- 
tions, shall never be fatal to a third. ’ 

‘I should rather have thought,’ said 
Mrs. Sinclair, in her soft clear voice, and 
casting down her eyes thoughtfully, ‘ that 

2) assion and feeling were the real heart of 
the matter : and that religion of some sort 
was an ingredient in all 2)erfect j^assion. 
There are seeds of feeling in every soul, 
but these will never rise uj) into flowers 
without some culture — will they, Mr. 
Luke? And this culture is, surely,’ she 
said dreamily, ‘ the work of Love who is 
the gardener of the soul, and of Religion, 
the under-gardener acting as Love bids it. ’ 

‘ Ah, yes !’ said Mr. Luke, looking com- 
2)assionately about him. ‘ Culture ! Mrs. 
Sinclair is quite right ; for without cul- 
ture we can never understand Christianity, 
and Christianity, whatever the vulgar may 
say of it, is the key to life, and is co-ex- 
tensive with it.’ 

Lady Ambrose was charmed with this 
sentiment. 

‘ Quite so, Mr. Luke, I quite agree with 


you,’ she said, in her most cordial manner. 

‘ But I wish you would tell me a little 
more about Culture. I am always so much 
interested in those things. ’ 

‘ Culture, ’ said Mr. Luke, ‘ is the union 
of two things — fastidious taste and liberal 
symi^athy. These can only be gained by 
wide reading guided by sweet reason ; and 
when they are gained. Lady Ambrose, we 
are conscious, as it were, of a new sense, 
which at once enables us to discern the 
Eternal and the absolutely righteous, 
wherever we find it, whether in an ej^istle 
of St. Paul’s or in a comedy of Menan- 
der’s. It is true that culture sets aside 
the larger i:>art of the New Testament as 
grotesque, barbarous, and immoral ; but 
what remains, purged of its a2)i)arent 
meaning, it discerns to be a treasure be- 
yond all ijrice. And in Christianity — such 
Christianity, I mean as true taste can ac- 
cept — culture sees the guide to the real 
significance of life, and the exjdanation, ’ 
Mr. Luke added with a sigh, ‘ of that 
melancholy which in our day is attendant 
ui)on all clear sights.’ 

‘But why,’ said Allen, ‘if you know so 
well what life’s meaning is, need you feel 
this melancholy at all ?’ 

‘ Ah !’ said Mr. Luke, ‘ it is from this 
very knowledge that the melancholy I 
S2)eak of si^rings. We — the cultured — we 
indeed see. But tlie world at large does 
not. It will not listen to us. It thinks 
we are talking nonsense. Surely that is 
enough to sadden us. Then, too, our ears 
are jjeiq^etually being i)ained and deafened 
by the din of the two o2)2)osing Philistin- 
isms — science and ortliodoxy — both equal- 
ly vulgar, and equally useless. But the 
masses cannot see this. It is imjjossible 
to 2)ersuade some that science can teach 
tliem nothing worth knowing, and others 
that the dogmatic utterances of the gos- 
2)els are either ignorant mistakes or orient- 
al nieta2)hors. Don’t you find this, Jenk- 
inson ?’ he added, addressing the Doctor 
across the table in a loiid mournful voice. 


THE NEW EEPUBLTC. 


13 


‘ Laurence, ’ said the Doctor, apparently 
not hearing the question, ‘ haven’t we talk- 
ed of this quite long enougli ? Toa'ri and 
Country — let us go on to that ; or else we 
sliall he getting very much behind-hand.’ 

/ These words of the Doctor’s caused a 
rapid change in the conversation. And as 
it appeared imiDOSsible to agree as to what 
the aim of life was, most turned eagerly to 
the sim 2 :)ler question of where it might be 
best attained. At first there seemed to be 
a general sense on all sides that it was a 
duty to 2 >refer the country. There, the 
voices of Nature si)oke to the soul more 
freely, the air was purer and fresher*; the 
things in life that were really valuable 
w’-ere more readily taken at their trne 
w'oidh ; foolish vanities and trivial cares 
w^ere less likely to degrade the character ; 
one could Ijave flowers ; one could listen 
to the music of birds and rivers ; a coun- 
try house w^as ahvays more comfortable 
' than a towui one ; and few i)ros23ects W' ere 
so charming as an English park. But the 
voice of Mr. Saunders w^as soon heard in'o- 
claiming that progress w’as almost entirely 
confined to towms, and that the niodern 
liberal could find little sco23e for action , 
in the country. ‘ If he does anything 
there, ’ Mr. Saunders said, ‘ lie can only 
make his tenants more comfortable and 
• contented ; and that is sim2Jly attaching 
them more to the existing order of things. 
Indeed, even nowq as matters stand, the 
healthy rustic, with his fresh com23lexion 
and honest eye, is absolutely incapable of 
appreciating the tyranny of religion and 
society. But the true liberal is unde- 
ceived by his pleasing exterior, and sees a 
far nobler creature in the pale narrow- 
chested operative of the city, who at once 
res23onds to the faintest cry of insurgence.’ 

Slight causes often produce large re- 
sults ; and these utterances of Mr. Saun- 
ders turned the entire torrent of opinion 
into a different channel. Mr. Luke, wdio 
had a moment before been talking about 
‘liberal air,’ and ‘sedged brooks,’ and 


‘ meadow^ grass, ’ now^ admitted that one’s 
country neighbours w^ere sure to be nar- 
row-minded sectarians, and that it was 
better to live amongst cultured society, 
even under a London fog, than to look at 
all the s 2 )lendour of 23rovincial sunsets, in 
company with a 23arson wdio could talk of 
notliing but his 2 >arishioners and justifica-. 
tion by faith. Others, too, follow'ed in 
the same direction ; and the verdict of the 
majority soon seemed to be that, exce23t in 
a large country house, country life, though 
it might be very beautiful, w'as still very 
tiresome. But the voice of Mr. Saunders 
was again heard, during a pause, laying it 
dowui that no true liberal could ever care 
to live in the country now ; and Lady Am- 
brose, w ho highly disa23proved of him and 
his view’s in general, saw here a fitting 
02323ortunity for contradicting him, assert- 
ing that, though she and her husband 
w^ere both advanced liberals, yet the 23leas- 
antest of their year was that S23ent 

upon their moor in Scotland. ‘ And then, 
too,’ she added, turning to Laurence, ‘I 
am devoted to our 23lace in Gloucester- 
shire, and I w’ould not miss for anything 
such things as my new dairy, and my cot- 
tages, wdth the old w^omen in them.’ 

‘And yet,’ said Laurence, smiling, ‘ Sir 
George would never^go near the place if it 
w^ere not for the shooting. ’ 

‘ Indeed he w’ould,’ said Lady Ambrose, 
a little indignantly. ‘ He likes the life so 
much, and is so fond of his gardens, and 
greenhouses, and ’ 

But she w as here interrupted by Mr. 
Herbert, who, mistaking the Sir George 
Ambrose mentioned for another Baronet 
of the same name — a gentleman of a very 
old but impoverished Catholic family — 
broke in as follows, somewhat to the con- 
sternation of Lady Ambrose, w’hose hus- 
band was a great cotton-spinner, of the 
most uncertain origin. 

‘ Sir George, ’ he said, ‘ is, as I know 
w^ell, an entirely honest gentleman of an- 
cient lineage. He is indeed a perfectly 


11 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


beautiful typo of what the English Squire 
2 >roperly ought to be. For he lives u 2 )on 
his own land, and amongst his own peo- 
ple ; and is a com 2 )lete and lovely exam- 
jde'to them of a life quite sim23le indeed, 
but in the highest sense loyal, noble, and 
orderly. But what is one amongst so 
many ? To most of his own order. Sir 
George Ambrose a2323ears merely as a mad- 
man, because he sees that it is altogether 
a nobler thing for a man to be brave and 
chivalrous than it is to be fashionable ; 
and because he looks forward on his dying 
day to remembering the human souls that 
he has saved alive, rather than the 25lieas- 
ants that he has shot dead. ’ 

Now, the husband of Lady Ambrose be- 
ing known to most 23 resent for his magnifi- 
cent new country house, his immense pre- 
serves, and his yacht c t four hundred tons 
that never went out of the Solent, there 
was naturally some wonder excited by Mr. 
Herbert’s words, since the thought of any 
other Sir George never came for an instant 
into any one’s head. Lady Amlwose her- 
self was in utter amazement. She could 
not tell what to make of it, and she was as 
near looking confused as she had ever been 
in her life. The awkwardness of the situ- 
ation was felt by many , and to cover it a 
hum of conversation s^)rang U2) with forced 
alsfcrity. But this did not make matters 
much better ; for in a very short time Mr. 
Herbert’s voice was again audible, utter- 
ing words of no measured denunciation 
against the great land-owners of England, 
‘who were once,’ he said, ‘in some true 
sense a Nobility, but are now the 2 >ortent- 
ousest Ignobility that the world ever set 
eyes upon.* Everyone felt that this was 
a2323roaching dangerous ground , nor were 
they at all reassured when Mr. Herbert, 
who was, it a2323eared, ( 2 uoting from a let- 
ter which he had received, he said, that 
morning from the greatest of modern 
thinkers, concluded amidst a complete si- 
lence with the following 23asKage, ‘ Fc.s, 
here they coine^ with coats of the newest fash- 


ion, iL'ith pedigrees of the newest forging,, 
with their mooj'S in Scotland, with their riv- 
ers in Norway, with their game pres(wves in 
England, with some thousands of human be- 
ings calling them masters, somewhei'e — they 
probably forget where — and with the mind 
of a thinking man, or with the heart of a 
gentleman, nowhere. Here they come, our 
cotton-spinning plutocrats, bringing in lux- 
ury, and vulgarity, and damnation!' 

These last words came like a thunder- 
clap. Laurence hardly knew where to 
look. The result, however, was more sat- 
isfactory than could have been ex23ected. 
There are some emotions, as we all know', 
that can be calmed best by tears. Lady 
iVmbrose did not cry. She did something 
better — she laughed. 

‘What w'ould ]3^or Sir George say ?’ 
she whispered to Laurence. ‘ He is fish- 
ing in Norw ay at this very moment. But 
do you really think,’ she w'ent on, being 
resolved not to shirk the subject, ‘that 
Society is really as bad as Mr. Herbert 
says ? I was looking into the Comte de 
Grammont’s Memoirs the other day, and 
I am sure nothing goes on in London now 
so bad as wdiat he describes. ’ 

‘Do you know. Lady Ambrose,’ said 
Mr. Herbert, who concluded that he had 
given her much liis late re- 

marks, ‘ I think the state of London at 
the 23resent day infinitely worse than any- 
thing Grammont or his biographer could 
have dreamt of.’ 

‘Quite so,’ said Mr. Luke; ‘the bulk 
of men in our days are just as immoral as 
they w'ere in ChaiTes the Second’s ; the 
only difference is that they are incom- 
2 )arably more stu23id ; and that, instead of 
decking their immorality with the jewels 
of wit, they clumsily try to cover it with 
the tar23aulin of respectability. This has 
not made the immorality any the better ; 
it has only made respectability the most 
contemptible word in the English lan- 
guage.’ 

‘ The fo23 of Charles’s time,’ said Leslie, 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


15 


‘aimed at seeming a wit and a scholar. 
The fop of ours aims at being a fool and a 
dunce. ’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Herbert, ‘society was 
diseased then, it is true, and marks of dis- 
ease disfigured and scarred its features. 
Still, in spite of this, it had some sound 
life left in it. But now the entire organ- 
ism is dissolving and falling asunder. All 
the parts are refusing to jDerform their 
functions. How, indeed, could this pos- 
sibly be otherwise, when the head itself, 
the aristocracy, the part whose special 
office is to see and think, has now lost 
completely both its brains and eyes, and 
has nothing head-like left it except the 
mouth ; and that cannot so much as speak. 
It can only eat and yawn.’ 

‘ Society, you see, Mr. Herbert, ’ said 
Lady Ambrose, who felt bound to say 
something, ‘ is so much larger now than 
it was. ’ 

‘Oh,’ said Laurence, shrugging his 
shoulders, ‘ in that sense, I really think 
there is almost no society now.’ 

‘ I don’t see how there can be,’ said Miss 
Merton, ‘when what is called society is 
simply one great scramble after fashion. 
And fashion is such a delicate fruit, that 
it is sure to be spoilt if it is scrambled 
for. ’ 

‘I am glad,’ said Laurence, ‘ you don’t 
abuse fashion as some people do. I look 
on it as the complexion of good society, 
and as the rouge of bad ; and when society 
gets sickly and loses its complexion, it 
takes to rouge — as it is doing now ; and 
the rouge eats into its whole system, and 
makes its health worse than ever. ’ 

‘ You are the last person, Mr. Laurence,’ 
said Lady Ambrose, ‘ you who go out so 
much, that I should have exjoected to hear 
talking against society like that.’ 

‘ Ah !’ said Laurence, ‘ we cannot es- 
cape from our circumstances : I only wish 
we coiild. I go into the best society I can 
get, but I am not blind to the fact that it 
is very bad. Of course there are a num- 


I ber of the most delightful people in it : I 
i am not denying that for a moment. But 
not only is society not made up out of a 
few of its parts, but even the best parts 
suffer from the tone of the whole. And 
taking society as a whole, I honestly doubt 
if it was ever at any time sc generally bad 
as it is now. I am not saying that it has 
forgotten its duties — that it cannot even 
conceive that it ever had any ; that is of 
course quite true: but Mr. Herbert has 
said that already*. I am not comx^laining 
of its moral badness, but of its social bad- 
ness — of its want of practical skill in life 
as a fine art — a want that it often feels 
itself, and yet has not the skill to remedy. 
Think for. a moment how barbarous are its 
amusements ; how little culture there is in 
its general tone ; how incapable it is of 
any enlightened interest !’ 

‘Really,’ said Mr. Stockton, ‘I think 
you are doing society a great injustice. It 
seems to me that enlightened interest is 
the very thing that is everywhere on the 
spread. The light of intellect is emerg- 
ing from the laboratory and the dissecting- 
room, where it had its birth, and is gild- 
ing, with its clear rays, the dinner-table, 
and even the ball-room. A freer, a truer, 
and a grander view of things, seems to me 
to be rapidly dawning on the world. ’ 

‘I fear, my dear sir,’ said Mr. Luke, 
‘ that these pleasing opinions of yours 
will not bear testing. ’ 

‘ Do you mean, ’ said Mr. Stockton, ‘ that 
society as a rule is not infinitely better in- 
formed now than it *was thirty years ago ? 
Has it not infinitely fewer prejudices and 
infinitely more knowledge ?’ 

‘ We should look to the effects of the 
knowledge, not to the knowledge itself,’ 
said Mr. Luke. ‘ We cannot test the 
health of a society from looking over its 
examination papers in i)hysical science. ’ 

‘How would you test it?’ said Mr. 
Stockton, with a slight curl of the lip. 

‘There are many tests,’ said Mr. Luke. 

‘ Here is one, amongst the very subjects 


16 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


that Mr. Laurence has ordered us to talk 
about — art and literature.’ 

‘I accept the test,’ said Mr. Stockton. 
‘What, then, can be nobler tlian much 
modern poetry ? There is some that I 
look ui3on as quite of the highest order. ’ 

‘When I spoke of our literature,’ said 
Mr. Luke, loftily, ‘ I was not thinking of 
poetry. We have no poetry now. ’ 

‘ Indeed ?’ said Mr. Stockton ; ‘ I imag- 
ined you had written some yourself.’ 

‘All!’ exclaimed Mr. ‘Luke, drawing a 
long sigh, ‘ I once knew what Goethe calls 
“the divine ^worth of tone and tears.” 
But my own poems only prove the truth 
of what I say. They could only have been 
written in evil days. They were simply a 
wail of x>ain ; and now that I am grown 
braver, I keep silence. Poetry in some 
ages is an exx3ression of the best strength ; 
in an age like ours it is the disguise of the 
worst weakness — or, when not that, it is 
simx>ly a forced jilant, an exotic. No, Mr. 
Stockton, I was not sjieaking of our poe- 
try, but of the one kind of imaginative 
literature that is the natural growth of our 
own day, the novel. Now, the novel it- 
self is a jilant, which, when it grows 
abundantly and alone, you may be sure is 
a sign of a iDoor soil. But don’t trust to 
that only. Look at our novels themselves, 
and see what sort of life it is they image — 
the trivial interests, the contemjitible inci- 
dents, the absurdity of the virtuous char- 
acters, the viciousness of the characters 
who are not absurd. Siiain was in some 
ways worse in Cervantes’ time than Eng- 
land is in ours ; but you may search all 
our novels for one character that has one 
tithe of Don Quixote’s heroism, for one of 
our sane men that breathed in so healthy 
and })ure an atmosphere as the insx)iiec». 
madman. And this is not from want of 
ability on the novelist’s part. Some of 
them have j^owers enough and to sj^are : 
but the best novels only reflect back most 
clearly the social anarchy, and the bad 
ones are unconscious parts of it.’ 


‘ And as for our painting, ’ said Mr. Her- 
bert, ‘ that reflects, even more clearly than 
our literature, our hideous and our hoj)e- 
less degradation. The other day, when I 
walked through the Royal Academy, my 
I mind was literally dazzled byAhe infernal 
^ glare of corruxition and vulgai'ity that was 
flashed uxion me from every side. There 
I were, indeed, only two pictures in the 
whole collection that were not entirely 
abominable ; and these were, one of them 
three boulders in the island of Sark, the 
other a study of x)ebbles on the beach of 
Ilfracombe. ’ 

‘ I know little about the technicalities of 
art,’ said Mr. Stockton, ‘ so I will not i)re- 
sume to dispute this j^oint with you. ’ 

‘ Well,’ said Leslie, ‘ here is another test 
quite as good as art and literature — love 
and money, and their relations in our 
days.’ 

He would have continued speaking ; but 
Mr. Herbert allowed him no time. 

‘ The very things, ’ he said, ‘ I was about 
to touch upon — the very things the pic- 
tures the other day suggested to me. For, 
seeing how the work of the painter be- 
comes essentially vile so soon as it be- 
comes essentially venal, I was reminded 
of the like corrujition of what is far more 
precious than the work of any jlainter — 
our own English girls, Avho are i^repared 
for the modern marriage-market on j^re- 
cisely the same principles as our pictures 
for the Royal Academy. There is but 
one difference. The work of the modern 
jDainter is vile from its very beginning — in 
its conception and execution alike ; but 
our girls we receive, in the first instance, 
entirely fair and sacred from the hands of 
God himself, clothed upon with a lovelier 

vesture than any lilies of the field * 

‘Really,’ whispered Lady Ambrose to 
Laurence, ‘ Providence has done so very 
little for us, as far as vesture goes. ’ 

‘ And we,’ Mr. Herbert went on, 

‘ with unsiDeakable jorofanity presume to 
dress and to decorate them, till the heav- 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


17 


enly vesture is entirely hidden, thinking, 
like a modern Simon Magus, that the 
gifts of God are to be purchased for 
money, and not caring to perceive that, 
if they are to be purchased with the 
devil’s money, we must first convert them 
into the devil’s gifts.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Sinclair, with a faint 
smile, ‘ the day for love-matches is quite 
gone over now. ’ 

But h6r words were drowned by Mr. 
Saunders, who exclaimed at the top of his 
voice, and in a state of great excitement, 

‘ Electric telegraphs — railways — steam 
printing presses — let me beg of you to 
consider the very next subject set for 
us — riches and civilisation — and to judge 
of the present generation by the light of 
that. ’ 

‘ I have considered them,’ said Mr. Her- 
bert, ‘ for the last thirty years — and with 
inexpressible melancholy.’ 

‘I conceive,’ said Mr. Saunders, ‘that 
you are somewhat singular in your feel- 
ings.’ 

‘I am,’ replied Mr. Herbert ; ‘and that 
in most of my opinions and feelings I am 
singular, is a fact fraught for me with 
the most ominous significance. Yet, how 
could I — who think that health is more 
than wealth, and who hold it a more im- 
portant thing to separate right from wrong 
than to identify men with monkeys — how 
could I hope to be anything but singular 
in a generation that deliberately, and with 
its eyes open, prefers a cotton-mill to a 
Titian ?’ 

‘I hold it,’ said Mr. Saunders, ‘to be 
one of the great triumphs of our day, that 
it has so subordinated all the vaguer and 
more lawless sentiments to the solid guid- 
ance of sober economical considerations. 
And not only do I consider a cotton -mill, 
but I consider even a good sewer, to be a 
far nobler and a far holier thing — for holy j 
in reality does but mean healthy — than the i 
most admired Madonna ever painted. ’ ! 

‘A good sewer,’ said Mr. Herbert, ‘is, I 

2 


admit, an entirely holy thing ; and would 
all our manufacturers and men of science 
bury themselves under ground, and confine 
their attention to making sewers, I for one, 
should have little complaint against them. ’ 
‘And are railways, telegraphs, gas- 
lamps — is the projected Channel tunnel, 
nothing in your eyes ? Is it nothing that 
all the conditions of life are ameliorated, 
that mind is daily pursuing farther its 
conquest over matter ?’ 

‘Have we much to thank you for,’ said 
Mr. Herbert, ‘that you have saved us 
from an hour of sea-sickness, if in return 
you give us a whole lifetime of heart-sick- 
ness ? Y'our mind, my good sir, that you 
boast of, is so occupied in subduing mat- 
ter, that it is entirely forgetful of subduing 
itself — a matter, trust me, that is far more 
important. And as for your amelioration 
of the conditions of life — that is not civ- 
ilisation which saves a man from the need 
of exercising any of his powers, but which 
obliges him to exert his noble powers ; 
not that which satisfies his low^er feelings 
with the greatest ease, but which provides 
satisfaction for his higher feelings, no mat- 
ter at what trouble. ’ 

‘Other things being equal,’ said Mr. 
Saunders, ‘ I apprehend that the genera- 
tion that travels sixty miles an hour is at 
least five times as civilised as the genera- 
tion that travels only twelve.’ 

‘But the other things are not equal,’ 
said Mr. Herbert : ‘ and the other things, 
by which I suppose you mean all that is 
really sacred in the life of man, have been 
banished or buried by the very things 
wdiich we boast of as our civilisation. ’ 

‘ That is our owm fault, ’ said Mr. Saun- 
ders, ‘not the fault of civilisation.’ 

‘ Not so,’ said Mr. Herbert. ‘ Bring up 
a boy to do nothing for himself — make 
everything easy for him — to use your own 
expression, subdue matter for him — and 
that boy will never be able to subdue 
anything for himself. He will be weak in 
body, and a coward in soul ’ 


18 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


‘Precisely,’ said Mr. Saunders. ‘ xind j 
that is really, if you look dispassionately 
at the matter, a consummation deyoutly 
to be wished. For why do we need our 
bodies to be strong ? — To oyercome obsta- 
cles. Why do we need to be braye ? — To 
attack enemies. But by and by, when all 
our work is done by machinery, and we 
haye no longer any obstacles to oyercome, 
or any hardships to endure, strength will 
become useless, and brayery dangerous. 
And my own hope is that both wull haye 
ere long yanished ; and that weakness and 
cowardice, qualities which we now so 
irrationally despise, will haye yindicated 
their real yalue, by turning uniyersal civ- 
ilisation into universal X3eace.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Herbert, ‘ that is exactly 
what the modern world is longing for — a 
universal peace ; which never can nor will 
mean anything else than peace with the 
devil.’ 

‘Keally,’ said Lady Ambrose to Leslie, 

‘ do you think we are in such a bad way 
as all this ? Dr. Jenkinson, I must ask 
you — you always know these things — do 
you think we are so very bad ?’ 

‘Yes — yes,’ said the Doctor, turning 
towards her with a cheerful smile, ‘ there 
is a great deal that is very bad in our own 
days — very bad indeed. Many thoughtful 
people think that there is more that is bad 
in the present than there has ever been in 
the past. Many thoughtful people in all 
days have thought the same. ’ 

‘Whenever wise men,’ said Herbert, 
‘have taken to thinking about their own 
times, it is quite true that they have al- 
ways thought ill of them. But that is 
because the times must have gone wrong 
before the wise men take to the business 
of thinking about them at all. We are 
never conscious of our constitutions till 
they are out of order. ’ 

‘Ah ! yes,’ said Mr. Luke ; ‘ how true 
that is, Herbert ! Philosophy may be a 
golden thing. But it is the gold of the 


autumn woods that soon falls, and leaves 
the boughs of the nation naked. ’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Leslie, ‘ leaving nothing but 

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds 
sang.’ 

‘ Thank you, Mr. Leslie,’ exclaimed Mr. 
Herbert across the table, ‘ thank you — an 
exquisitely aj^t quotation.’ 

‘ Then you, Mr. Leslie,’ said Lady Am- 
brose, in a disapi^ointed voice, ‘you are 
one of these desj^onding peojDle too, are 
you ? I never heard anything so dismal 
in my life. ’ 

‘I certainly think,’ said Leslie, ‘that 
our age in some ways could not possibly 
be worse. Nobody knows what to be- 
lieve, and most people believe nothing. 
Don’t you find that ? 

‘Indeed I do not,’ said Lady Ambrose, 
with some vigour, ‘ and I aih very sorry 
for those who do. That Mr. Saunders,’ 
she added, lowering her voice, ‘ is the first 
person I ever heard express such views. 
We w^ere dining only the other day with 

the Bishoj) of , and I’ll tell you what 

he said, Mr. Leslie. He said that the 
average number of churches built yearly 
during the last ten years was greater than 
it had ever been since the Beformation. 
That does not look as if religion was on 
the decline, does it ? I know the Bishop 
spoke of a phase of infidelity that was 
passing over the nation : but that, he 
said, would soon have drifted by. In- 
deed, he told us that all the teachings of 
modern irreligious science were simply 
reproductions of — you must not laugh at 
me if I say the names wrong — Epicurus 
and Democritus — which had been long 
ago refuted. And that was no peculiar 
crotchet of his own mind ; for a very 
clever gentleman who was sitting next me 
said that that was the very thing which all 
the bishops agreed in saying — almost the 
only thing indeed, in which they did 
agree. ’ 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


19 


‘All!’ said Leslie, ‘materialism once 
came to the world like a small street boy 
tlii’Qwing mud at it ; and the indignant 
Avorld very soon drove it away. But it 
has now come back again, dirtier than 
ever, bringing a big brother with it, and 
Heaven knows when we shall get rid of it 
now.’ 

‘ In every state of transition, ’ said Dr. 
Jenkinson to Miss Merton, ‘there must 
always be much uneasiness. But I don’t 
think,’ he said, with a little iileased laugh, 
‘ that you will find these times really much 
worse than those that went before them. 
No — no. If we look at them soberly, they 
are really a great deal better. We have 
already got rid of a vast amount of super- 
stition and ignorance, and are learning 
what Christianity really is. We are learn- 
ing true reverence — that is, not to dogma- 
tise about subjects of which we cannot 
possibly know anything.’ 

‘Just so, Jenkinson,’ said Mr. Luke; 
‘ that is the very thing I am trying to 
teach the world myself. Personal immor- 
tality, for instance, which forms no 2 )art 
of the sweet secret of authentic Christian- 
ity ’ 

‘Yes — Yes,’ said the Doctor hastily : 
‘the Church had degraded the doctrine. 
It needed to be exj^ressed anew. ’ 

‘ Of course, ’ said Miss Merton, ‘ I as a 
Catholic ’ 

‘ Dear ! dear 1’ exclaimed the Doctor, in 
some confusion, ‘I beg your j^ardon. I 
had no notion you were a Roman Catholic. ’ 

‘I was going to say,’ Miss Merton went 
on, ‘ that, though of course as a Catholic 
I am not without what I believe to be an 
infallible guide, I feel just as much as 
anyone the bad state in which things are 
now. It is so difficult to shape one’s 
course in life. One has nowhere any work 
cut out for one. There is a "want of — 
well—’ she said, smiling, ‘ of what per- 
haps, when religion has been analysed by 
science, wull be called moral ozone in the 
air. ’ 


‘ Such a feeling is not unnatural,’ said 
the Doctor ; ‘ but you will find it vanish 
if you just rfesolve cheerfully to go on do- 
ing the duty next you — ev^in if this be 
only to order dinner. And,’ he said, turn- 
ing to her rather abruptly, ‘ don’t des 2 )ond 
over the times : that only makes them 
worse. Besides, they are not really at all 
bad. There is no need for desponding at 
all.’ 

‘ But there is at least excuse, ’ said Lau- 
rence, ‘ when we see all the old faiths, the 
old ideas, under which the world has so 
long found shelter, fading 

Like the baseless fabric of a vision, 

rajDidly and for ever away from us. ’ 

‘I don’t think so,’ said the Doctor, as if 
that settled the question. 

‘ Christianity, ’ said Mr. Stockton, ‘ is 
only retiring to make way for something 
better. Religions are not quickened un- 
less they i^erish. Look forward at the 
growing brightness of the future, not at 
the faded brightness of the past. ’ 

‘ Why not look at the jDresent ?’ said Dr. 
Jenkinson. ‘ DejDend u^^on it, it is not 
wise to be ' above one’s times. There’s 
plenty of religion now. The real power 
of Christianity is growing every day, even 
wdiere you least exi3ect it. ’ 

“ In what part of Christianity,’ said Les- 
lie, ‘ its real power lies, it w'ould be unbe- 
coming in me to i^rofess that I know. 
But this I do know, that if you take four 
out of five of the more thoughtful and 
instructed men of the day, you will find 
that not only have they no faith in a per- 
sonal God or a personal immortality, but 
the very notions of such things seem to 
them absurdities. ’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Herbert, ‘it was once 
thought a characteristic of the lowest sav- 
' ages to be without a belief in a future life. 
It will soon be thought a characteristic of 
the lowest savages to be with one.’ 

‘ Really now — ’ said Mr. Luke, in a voice 
whose tone seemed to beseech everyone to 


20 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


be sensible, ‘personal immortality and ; 
personal Deity are no doctrines of Chris 
tianity. You, Jenkinson, I* know agree! 
with me.’ ' i 

There was nothing the Doctor so dis- ; 
liked as these appeals from Mr. Luke. 
He made in this case no response what- 
ever. He turned instead to Miss Merton. 

‘ You see,’ he said to her in a very quiet 
but very judicial way, ‘ the age we live in 
is an age of change. And in all such ages 
there must be many things that, if w^e let 
them, will pain and puzzle us. But we 
mustn’t let them. There have been many 
ages of change before our time, and there 
are sure to be many after it. Our age is 
not peculiar.’ 

Here he paused, as he had a way of do- 
ing at times between his sentences. This 
practice now, as it had often been before, 
was of a disservice to him ; for it gave a 
fatal facility for interruption wdien he 
could least have wished it. In this case 
Leslie entirely put him out, by attacking 
the very statement which the Doctor least 
of all had designed to bear question. 

‘But in some ways,’ said Leslie, ‘this 
age is j)eculiar, surely. It is peculiar in 
the extraordinary rapidity of its changes. 
Christianity took three hundred years to 
supplant polytheism ; atheism has hardly 
taken thirty to supplant Christianity.’ 

Dr. Jenkinson did not deign to take the 
least notice of this. 

‘ I suppose, ’ said Miss Merton to Leslie, 

‘ that you think Catholicism quite a thing 
of the past ?’ 

‘ I’m afraid,’ said Leslie, ‘ that my opin- 
ion on that is of very small iiniDortance. 
But, however that may be, you must ad- 
mit that in the views of the world at large 
there have been great changes ; and these, 
I say, have come on us with so astonish- 
ing a quickness that they have plunged us 
into a state of mental anarchy that has not 
been equalled since mental order has been 
known. There is no recognised rule of 
life anywhere. The old rules only satisfy 


hose who are not capable of feeling the 
leed of any rule at all. Everyone who 
does right at all only does what is right in 
his own eyes. All society, it seems, is 
going to pieces. ’ 

‘I,’ said Mr. Kose, ‘look upon social 
dissolution as the true condition of the 
most perfect life. For the centre of life 
is the individual, and it is only through 
dissolution that the individual can re- 
emerge. All the warrings of endless 
doubts, all the questionings of matter 
and spirit, which I have myself known, 
I value only because, remembering the 
weariness of them, I take a profounder 
and more exquisite pleasure in the colour 
of a crocus, the pulsations of a chord of 
music, or a picture of Sondro Botticelli’s.’ 

Mr. Bose’s words hardly produced all 
the effect he could have wished ; for the 
last part was almost drowned in the gen- 
eral rustle of the ladies rising. 

‘ Before we go, Mr. Laurence,’ said Lady 
Ambrose, ‘ will you be good enough to tell 
me the history of these salt-cellars ? I 
wanted to have asked you at the beginning 
of dinner, but you made yourself so very 
appalling then, that I really did not ven- 
ture.’ 

‘Well,’ said Laurence, ‘ no doubt they 
surprise you. They were a present made 
to me the other day by a friend of mine — 
an eminent man of science, and are models 
of a peculiar kind of retort he has invent- 
ed, for burning human bodies, and turn- 
ing them into gas. ’ 

i ‘ Good gracious !’ said Lady Ambrose, 

I ‘ how horrible ! I insist, Mr. Laurence, 
on your having another set to-morrow 
night — remember. ’ 

‘There,’ said Laurence, when the gen- 
tlemen had resettled themselves, and had 
begun their wine, ‘ there is the new ver- 
sion of the skeleton at the banquet-board 
— the two handfuls of white dust, to which 
we, the salt of the earth, shall one day 
crumble. Let us sacrifice all the bulls 
we have to Pluto ilUicrimahilis — let us 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


21 


sacrifice ourselves to one another, or to 
Heaven — to this favour must we come. 
Is not that so, Mr. Storks?’ 

‘ Laurence,’ said Dr. Jenldnson briskly, 
‘the conversation hasn’t kept pace with 
the dinner. We have got no farther than 
“ The Present” yet. The ladies are going 
to talk of “The Future” by themselves. 
See — they are out on the terrace. ’ 

Mr. Storks here drew his chair to the 
table, and cleared his throat. 

‘It is easier,’ he said, ‘ to talk about the 
present now that we are alone — now they' 
he nodded his head in the direction of the 
party outside, ‘ are gone out to talk about 
the future in the moonlight. There are 
many things which even yet it does not 
do to say before women — at least, before 
all women.’ 

‘ My aunt, * said Laurence, ‘ is a great 
authority on woman’s education and true 
l)osition ; and she has written an essay to 
advance the female cause. ’ 

‘ Indeed ?* said Mr. Storks ; ‘ I was not 
aware of that. I shall look -forward with 
much pleasure to some conversation with 
her. But what I was going to say related 
to the present, which at dinner was on all 
sides so mercilessly run down. I was 
going to claim for the iDresent age, in 
thought and speculation (and it is these 
that give their tone to its entire conduct of 
life), as its noble and peculiar feature, a 
universal, intrepid, dogged resolve to find 
out and face the complete truth of things, 
and to allow no prejudice, however dear to 
us, to obscure our vision. This is the 
only real morality ; and not only is it full 
of blessing for the future, but it is giving 
us “ manifold more in this present time ” 
as well. The work of science, you see, is 
twofold ; it enlarges the horizon of the 
mind, and improves the conditions of the 
body. If you will pardon my saying so, 
Mr. Herbert, I think your antipathy to 
science must be due to your not having 
fully appreciated its true work and dig- 
nity.* 


‘ The work of science is, I know, two- 
fold,’ said Mr. Herbert, ‘speculative and 
practical. ’ 

‘Exactly so,’ said Mr. Storks approv- 
ingly. 

‘ And all it can do for us in speculation,* 
said Mr. Herbert, ‘ is to teach us that we 
have no life hereafter : all it can do for us 
in practice, is to ruin our life here. It 
enervates us by providing us with base 
luxury ; it degrades us by turning our 
attention to base knowledge.’ 

‘No — no,’ said Dr. Jenkinson, with one 
of his little laughs, ‘ not that. I don’t 
think, Mr. Storks, that Mr. Herbert al- 
ways quite means what he says. We 
mustn’t take him at his word. ’ 

‘ My dear sir, ’ said Mr. Herbert, turn- 
ing to the Doctor, ‘ you are a consecrated 
priest of the mystical Church of Christ ’ — 
Dr. Jenkinson winced terribly at this — 
‘and let me ask you if you think it the 
work of Christ to bring into men’s minds 
eternal corruption, instead of eternal life — 
or, rathei’, not corruption, I should say, 
but jjutrefaction. For what is putrefac- 
tion but decomjjosition ? And at the 
touch of science, all our noblest ideas 
decomi^ose and j^^f^^fy, till our whole 
souls are strewn with dead hopes and 
dead religions, with corpses of all the 
thoughts we loved 

Quickening slowly into lower forms. 

You may call it analysis, but I call it 
death. ’ 

‘I wish we could persuade you,’ said 
Mr. Stockton, very temperately, ‘ to take 
a fairer view of things. Surely truth can- 
not in the long run be anything but life- 
giving.’ 

‘Let us take care of facts,’ said Mr. 
Storks, ‘ and fictions — I beg your pardon, 
religion — will take care of itself.’ 

‘ And religion, ’ said Mr. Stockton, ‘ will 
take care of itself very well. Of course 
we don’t waste time now in thinking about 
personal immortality. We shall not live ; 


22 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


but the mind of man will ; and religion 
will live too, being part of the mind of 
man. Religion is, indeed, to the inner 
world w^hat the sky is to the outer. It is 
the mind’s canopy — the infinite mental 
azure in which the mysterious source of 
our being is at once revealed and hidden. 
Let us beware, then, of not considering 
religion noble ; but let us beware still 
more of considering it true. We may 
fancy that we trace in the clouds shapes 
of real things ; and, as long as we know 
that this is only fancy, I know of no holier 
occupation for the human mind than such 
cloud-gazing. But let us always recollect 
that the cloud wdiich to us may seem 
shaped like a son of man, may seem to 
another to be backed like a weasel, and 
to another to be very like a wdiale. What, 
then, ’ Mr. Stockton added, ‘ can be a no- 
bler study than the great book of Nature, or 
as we used to call it, the works of God ?’ 

‘ Pray do not think, ’ said Mr. Herbert, 
‘that I complain of this generation be- 
cause it studies Nature. I complain of it 
because it does not study her. Yes,’ he 
w'ent on, as he saw Mr. Stockton start, 

‘ you can analyse her in your test tubes, 
you can s]3y at her through your micro- 
scopes ; but can you see her with your 
own eyes, or receive her into your own 
souls ? You can tell us what she makes 
her w^onders of, and how she makes them, 
and how long she takes about it. But you 
cannot tell us what these wonders are like 
when they are made. When God said, 
“Let there be light, and light was, and 
God saw that it was good,” was he think- 
ing, as he saw this, of the exact velocity 
it travelled at, and of the exact laws it 
travelled by, wdiich you wise men are at 
such infinite pains to discover ; or was he 
thinking of something else, which you 
take no pains to discover at all — of how it 
clothed the wings of the morning with sil- 
ver, and the feathers of the evening with 
gold ? Is water, think you, a nobler thing 
to the modern chemist, who can tell you 


exactly what gasses it is made of, and 
nothing more ; or to Turner, wdio could 
not tell you at all what it is made of, but 
who did know and who could tell you 
wliat it is made — what it is made by the 
sunshine, and the cloud-shadow, and the 
storm-wind — who knew how it i^aused in 
the taintless mountain trout-pool, a living 
crystal over stones of flickering amber ; 
and how it broke itself turbid, with its 
choirs of turbulent thunder, when the 
rocks card it into foam, and where the 
tempest sifts it into spray ? When Pindar 
called water the best of things, was he 
thinking of it as the union of oxygen and 
hydrogen ’ 

‘ He would have been much wiser if he 
had been,’ interposed Dr. Jenkinson. — 
‘ Thales, to whose theory, as you know, 
Pindar was referring ’ But the Doc- 

tor’s words were utterly unavailing to 
check the torrent of Mr. Herbert’s elo- 
quence. They only turned it into a slight- 
ly different course. 

‘ Ah ! masters of modern science, ’ he 
went on, ‘ you can tell us wliat pure w^ater 
ismade of ; but, thanks to your drains and 
your mills, you cannot tell us where to 
find it. You can, no doubt, explain to us 
all about sunsets ; but the smoke of your 
towns and your factories has made it im- 
possible for us to see one. However, each 
generation is wise in its own wisdom ; and 
ours would sooner look at a foetus in a 
bottle, than at a statue of the god Apollo, 
from the hand of Phidias, and in the air 
of Athens. ’ 

During all this speech, Mr. Storks had 
remained with his face buried in his hands, 
every now and then drawing in his breath 
through his teeth, as if he were in pain. 
When it was over, he looked up with a 
scared expression, as if he hardly knew 
where he was, and seemed quite unable to 
utter a syllable. 

‘Of course,’ said Mr. Stockton, ‘mere 
science, as science, does not deal with 
moral right and wrong.’ 


THE NEW KEPUBLIO. 


23 


‘No,’ said Mr. Saunders, ‘for it lias 
shown that right and wrong are terms of 
a bygone age, connoting altogether false 
ideas. Mere automata, as science shows 
^ye are — clockwork machines, wound up 
by meat and drink ’ 

‘ As for that, ’ broke in Mr. Storks, who 
had by this time recovered himself — and 
his weighty voice at oi>ce silenced Mr. 
Saunders, ‘I would advise our young 
friend not to be too confident. We may 
be automata, or we may not. Science has 
not yet decided. And upon my word,* he 
said, striking the table, ‘I don’t myself 
care which we are. Supposing the Deity 
— if there be one — should offer to make 
me a machine, if I am not one, on con- 
dition that T should always go right, I for 
one, would gladly close with the pro- 
posal. ’ 

‘But you forget,’ said Allen, ‘that in 
the moral sense there would be no going 
right at all, if there were not also the pos- 
sibility of going wrong. If your watch 
keeps good time you don’t call it virtuous, 
nor if it keeps bad time do you call it sin- 
ful.’ 

‘ Sin, Lord Allen, ’ said Mr. Storks, ‘ is 
a word that has helped to retard moral 
and social progress more than anything. 
Nothing is good or bad, but thinking 
makes it so ; and the superstitious and 
morbid way in which a number of en- 
tirely innocent things have been banned 
as sin, has caused more than half the 
tragedies of the world. Science will es- 
tablish an entirely new basis of morality ; 
and the sunlight of rational approbation 
will shine on many a thing, hitherto over- 
shadowed by the curse of a hypothetical 
God.’ 

‘Exactly so,’ exclaimed Mr. Saunders, 
eagerly. ‘Now, I’m not at all that sort of 
man myself,’ he went on, ‘ so don’t think 
it because I say this.’ 

Everyone stared at Mr. Saunders in 
wonder as to what he could mean. 

‘We think it, for instance, ’ he said, ‘a 


very sad thing when a girl is as we call it 
ruined. But it is we really that make all 
the sadness. She is ruined only because 
we think she is so. And I have little 
doubt that the higher philosophy of the 
future, that Mr. Storks speaks of, will 
go far, some day, towards solving the 
great question of women’s sphere of ac- 
tion, by its recognition of prostitution 
as an honourable and beneficent profes- 
sion. ’ 

‘ Sir !’ exclaimed Mr. Storks, striking 
the table, and glaring with indignation at 
Mr. Saunders, ‘I could hardly have be- 
lieved that such misplaced flippancy ’ 

‘Flippancy ! It is reasoned truth,’ 
shrieked Mr. Saunders, upsetting his 
wine-glass. 

Luckily this brought about a pause. 
Laurence took advantage of it. 

‘See,’ he said, ‘Dr. Jenkinson has left 
us. Will no one have any more wine ? 
Then suppose we follow him.’ 


CHAPTEE IV. 

It was a calm, lovely evening. The 
moon was rising over the sea, and the sea 
was slowly silvering under it. A soft 
breeze breathed gently, full of the scents 
of flowers ; and in the low sky of the west 
there yet lingered a tender peach-colour. 

The ladies were sitting about on chairs, 
grouped together, but with several little 
groups within the group ; and amongst 
them all was Dr. Jenkinson, making him- 
self particularly agreeable to Mrs. Sin- 
clair. When the gentlemen emerged, 
there was a general stir, and Lady Am- 
brose, shutting up a volume of St.-Simon*^ 
Memoirs, said, ‘Well, Mr. Laurence, we 
have been talking most industriously about 
the future.’ 

Laurence was standing with Mr. Luke 
on the step of the dining-room wundow* 


24 


THE NEW BEPUBLIC. 


and both were looking out gravely on the 
tranquil scene. 

‘Do you remember,’ said Laurence, 
‘that it was here, three years ago, that 
you composed the lines that stand last in 
your published volumes ?’ 

‘ I remember, ’ said Mr. Luke, dreamily. 
‘ What an evening that was !’ 

‘I wish you would repeat them,’ said 
Laurence. 

‘ What is the good ?’ said Mr. Luke ; 
‘ why rouse again the voices that haunt 

About the mouldered lodges of the past?’ 


‘ Mr. Luke, ’ said Lady Ambrose, ap- 
pealingly, ‘ I do so wish you would. ’ 

‘ Is Mr. Luke going to recite poetry ?’ 
said Mrs. Sinclair, coming languidly up 
to them. ‘ How delicious !’ She was 
looking lovely in the dim light, with a 
diamond star shining in her dark hair ; 
and for a mortal bard, there was posi- 
tively no resistij^g her appeal. 

Mr. Luke, with a silent composure, 
pressed his hands for a moment against 
his forehead ; he gave one hem ; and 
then in a clear melodious voice began 
as follows : — 


^Softly the evening descends^ 
Violet and soft The sea 
Adds to the silence, below 
Pleasant and cool on the beach 
Breaking ; yes, and a breeze 
Calm as the twilight itself 
Furtively sighs through the dusk, 
Listlessly lifting my hair. 

Fanning my thoughUwearied brow. 
Thus I stand in the gloom 
Watching the moon-track begin 
Quivering to die like a dream 
Over the far sea-line 
To the unknown region beyond. 


* So for ages hath man 
Gazed on the ocean of time 

From the shores of his birth, and, turning 
His eyes from the quays, the thronged 
Marts, the 7ioise and the din 
To the far horizon, hath dreamed 
Of a timeless country beyond. 

Vainly : for how should he pass. 

Being on foot, o'er the wet 
Ways of the unplumbed waves ? 

How, without ship, should he pass 

Over the shipless sea 

To the timeless country beyond? 

* Ah, but once — once long ago. 

Came there a ship white-sailed 
From the country beyond, with bright 
Oarsman, and men that sang; 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


25 


Came to Humanity'' s coasts. 

Called to the men on the shore, 

Joyously touched at the port. 

Theyi did time-weary man 
Climb the bulwarks, the deck 
Eagerly Ci'owding. Anon 
With jubilant voices raised, 

And singing, “ When Israel came 
Out of Egypt, and whatso else 
In the psalm is written, they passed 
Out of the ken of the land, 

Ovefi' the far sea-line. 

To the unknown region beyond. 

* Whe?-e are they now, then — they 
That were borne out of sight by the ship — 
Our brothers, of times gone by ? 

Why have they left us here 
Solemn, dejected, alone. 

Gathered in groups on the shore? 

Why? For we, too, have gazed 
O'er the waste of waters, and watched 
For a sail as keenly as they. 

Ah, wretched men that we are! 

On our haggard faces and brows 
Aching, a xoild breeze fawns 
Full of the scents of the sea. 

Redolent of regions beyond. 

Why, fhen, tarries the ship ? 

Wheyi xvill her white sail rise 
Like a star on the sea-line? When? 

‘ When ? — And the answer* coxnes 
From the sailless face of the sea. 

Ah, vain watchers, ivhat boots 
The calm of the evening ? 

Have ye not icatched through the day 
Turbulent waves, the expanse 
Endless, shaken with storm. 

And ask ye where is the ship? 

Deeper than plummet can dive 
She is bedded deep in the ooze. 

And over her tall mast floats 
The purple plain of the calm.*' 

‘ Yes — and never a ship 
Since this is sunken, will come 
Ever again o'er the waves — 


26 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


Nay, not even the craft with the fierce 
Steersman, him of the marsh 
Livid, with wheels of flame 
Circling his eyes, to smite 
The lingering soid with his oar. 

— that even. But we 
Drop where we stand one hy one 
On the shingles and sands of time. 
And cover in taciturn gloom, 

With only perhaps some tear, 

Each for his brother the hushed 
Heart and the limitless dreams 
With a little gift of sand. ’ 


‘ Thank yon, Mr. Lnke, so ranch, ’ said 
Lady Ambrose. ‘ How charming ! I am 
always so fond of poems abont the sea. ’ 

‘Ah, ’ said Mr. Lnke, turning to Mrs. 
Sinclair, ‘ these are emotions scarcely 
worth describing. ’ 

‘ Certainly not, ’ mnttered Mr. Storks, 
half alond as he moved off to discover 
Lady Grace. 

Mr. Lnke stood apart, and snrveyed the 
party with a look of pensive pity. On 
Mr. Storks, however, whose last remark 
he had overheard, his eyes rested with an 
exi^ression somewhat more contemptons. 
The ]:)rightening moonlight fell softly on 
the groniJ before him, giving it a particu- 
larly pictnresqne effect, as it tonched the 
many colonrs and folds of the ladies’ 
dresses, and strnck here and there a fur- 
tive flash from a gem on wrist or throat. 
The tranquil honr seemed to have a tran- 
(piilising effect on nearly everyone ; and 
the conversation reached Mr. Lnke’s ears 
as a low mnrmnr, broken only by the deep 
sonnd of Mr. Stork’s voice, and the occa- 
sional high notes of Mr. Sannders, who 
seemed to Mr. Lnke, in his present frame 
of mind, to be like a shrill cock crowing 
to the world before the snnrise of univer- 
sal xdiilistinism. 

Lanrence meanwhile had caught Miss 
Merton’s eyes looking at him with a grave 
regard ; and this had brought him instant- 


j ly to her -side, when Mr. Lnke had ended 
his recital. 

I ‘We didn’t spare the times we live in, 
j to-night, did we ?’ he said slowdy to her 
; in a low voice. ‘ Well, well — I w^onder 
I what it is all coming to — ^ve and onr times 
I together ! We are certainly a cnrions med- 
ley here, all of ns. I suppose no age bnt 
onrs conld have produced one like it — at 
I least, let ns hope so, for the credit of the 
I ages in general. ’ 

‘ I mnst say,’ said Miss Merton, smiling, 
‘that yon seem to take to the age very 
kindly, ffnd to be very hapx^y amongst 
yonr friends. Bnt yon did not tell ns 
very mnch of wdiat yon thonght y onrself. ’ 
‘I don’t often say wdiat I think,’ said 
Lanrence, ‘ because I don’t often know 
what I think ; bnt I know a great many 
things that I don’t think ; and I confess I 
take a jileasnre in saying these, and in 
hearing others say them ; so the society 
that I choose as a rule represents not the 
things I think I approve, bnt the things I 
am snre I repudiate. ’ 

‘I confess,’ said Miss Merton, ‘I don’t 
quite nnderstaiid that. ’ 

‘Shall I tell yon,’ said Lanrence, ‘why 
I live so mnch in society — amongst my 
friends, as yon call them ? Simply be- 
cause I feel, in my life, as a child does in 
a dark room ; and I mnst have some one 
to talk to, or else I think I shonld go mad. 


THE NEW PvEPUBLIC. 


27 


Wliat one says is little matter, so long as ! 
one makes a noise of some sort, and for- i 
gets the ghosts that in one’s heart one is 
shuddering at.’ 

Miss Merton was silent for a moment, 
and looked up into the sky in which the 
stars were now one by one appearing. 

‘I supx)ose,’ she said j^resently, ‘you 
think it is a very poor affair — life’s whole 
business. And yet I don’t see why you 
should.’ 

‘ Not see why I should ? repeated Lau- 
rence. ‘Ah, that shows how little you, 
from your position, can sym2:)athise with 
ours. I am not suriDrised at it. Of course 
it is out of the question that you should. 
You, happy iu some sustaining faith, can 
see a meaning in all life, and all life’s af- 
fections. You can endure — you can even 
welcome its sorrows. The clouds of enn ui 
themselves for you have silver linings. 
Eor your religion is a kind of i^liilosoj^her’s 
stone, turning whatever it touches into 
something precious. But we — we can 
only remember that for us, too, things had 
a meaning once ; but they have it no long- 
er. Life stares at us now, all blank and 
expressionless, like the eyes of a lost friend, 
who is not dead, but who has turned an 
idiot. Perhaps you never read Clough’s 
Poem s, did you ? Scarcely a day passes 
in which I do not echo to myself his words : 

Ah well-a-day, for we are souls bereaved ! 

Of all the creatures under heaven’s wide cope 

We are most hopeless who had once most 
hope, 

And most beliefless who had once believed.’ 

‘ And do you think, ’ said Miss Merton 
in a low tone, ‘ that belief in these days 
brings no painful peri)lexities too ? Do 
you think that we can look out on the 
state of the world now, and think about 
its future, without anxiety ? But really,’ 
she went on, raising her voice, ‘ if I, like 
you, thought that Christianity was not 
true, I should not waste my time in la- 
menting over it. I should rather be glad 


that I had got free from a gigantic and aw 
fill imposition. ’ 

‘ What !’ exclaimed Laurence, ‘ should 
we rejoice at our old guide dropping dead 
amongst the mountains, even though he 
had lost his way ; if so, we are left hoj^e- 
less, and without any guide at all ?’ 

‘ You have your consciences,’ said Miss 
Merton, with some decision in her voice ; 

‘ you surely don’t mean to say that you 
have lost them ?’ 

‘As for our consciences,’ said Leslie, 
who was standing close by, ‘ we revere 
them so much that we fancy they jiossess 
some jioiver. But conscience, in most 
souls, is like an English Sovereign — it 
reigns, but it does not govern. Its funct- 
ion is merely to give a formal assent to the 
Bills jiassed by the i)assions ; and it knows, 
if it ojiposes what those are really bent 
112)011, that ten to one it will be obliged to 
abdicate. ’ 

‘ Let us ho2)e that the constitutions of 
most souls are more stable than that, ’ said 
Miss Merton. ‘ As far as morality goes, I 
ex2)ect you have quite enough to guide 
you ; and if you think religion false, I 
don’t see why its loss should trouble you.’ 

‘ And life itself, remember, has 2>lenty of 
pleasures. It is full of things worth liv- 
ing for. ’ 

‘ Is it ?’ exclaimed Leslie with sudden 
em 2 )hasis, and he looked into Miss Mer- 
ton’s face Avith an ex23ression half absent 
and half Avondering. ‘ Is there anything 
in life that you really think is, for its OAvn 
sake, worth liAung for ? To me it seems 
that Ave are haunted with the 230Aver of im- 
agining that there might be, and are pur- 
sued Avith the knoAvledge that there never 
is. Look at that loA^ely water before us, 
Avith its floods of moonlight — how it ri2)- 
2)les, hoAV it sparkles aAvay into the dis- 
tance ! What ha 2 )piness sights like these 
suggest to one ! Hoav ha2)2Jy they might 
make us — might, but they neA^er do ! They 
only madden us Avith a A^ague 25ain, that is 
like the sense of something lost for ever. ’ 


28 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


‘ Still,’ said Miss Merton, ‘ life is not all 
moonlight. Surely friendship and affec- 
tion are worth haying ?’ 

‘Let me beg you. Miss Merton,’ said 
Leslie, replying to her tone rather than to 
her words, ‘ not to think that I am almost 
pining and bemoaning myself. Fortu- 
nately the deeper part of one’s nature will 
often go to sleep, and then the surface can 
enjoy itself. We can even laugh with our 
lips at the very things that our hearts in 
silence are breaking for. But as for haj)- 
piness, that is always like prophecy, it is 
only fulfilled in the future ; or else it is a 
miracle — it only exists in the past. The 
actual things we wish for we may very 
likely get, but they always come too late 
or too soon. Wlien the boy is in love, he 
tries to feel like a man ; wdien the man is 
in love, he tries to feel like a boy ; and both 
in vain. ’ 

‘ Ah, ’ exclaimed Laurence, ‘ I think very 
differently from that. I know, ’ he said, 
turning to Miss Merton, ‘ that friendship 
and affection are things worth having ; 
and if only j^ain and anxiety would leave 
me, I could enjoy the taste of haj^piness.’ 

‘ Could you ?’ said Leslie. ‘ Wlien I 
look at what we are and what the world is, 
I can fancy no more melancholy sj^ectacle 
than a hapj^y man ; though I admit,’ he 
added as he moved slowly away, ‘that 
there is none ihore amusing than a man 
who tries to be melancholy. ’ 

‘ Leslie is oddly changed, ’ said Lau- 
rence, ‘ since I saw him last. I am dis- 
tressed with life because I cannot find out 
its worth. lie is indignant at it, it seems, 
because, he thinks he has found out its 
worthlessness. And yet — I envy him his 
temperament. He never lets any melan- 
choly subdue liim. He can always laugh 
it down in a moment ; and he will tram- 
ple bravely on any of his sentiments if he 
is on the road to anything he is proud of 
aiming at.’ 

Laurence was silent for a moment, and 
then said abruptly; — 


‘ I dare say you think me very morbid ; 
but perhaps you can hardly realise the in- 
tense restless misery that a man endures 
when he can find nothing to do which he 
really feels worth doing. Could I only 
find one thing — one great cause to labour 
for — one great idea — I could devote my 
whole self to it, and be happy: for labour, 
after all, is the only thing that never palls 
on a man. But such a cause, such an 
idea — I can find it nowhere. Politics 
have turned into a petty, weary game; 
religion is dead. Our new prophets onh^ 
offer us Humanity, in place of the God 
of which they have deprived us. And 
Humanity makes a very poor Deity, since 
it is every day disgracing itself, and is 
never of the same mind from one week’s 
end to another. And so here I am utterly 
alone — friendless, and with nothing to 
help me; feeling that, were it not for the 
petty contemptible interests I manufac- 
ture for myself from day to day, life would 
be quite unbearable.’ 

‘ And yet, ’ said Miss Merton, ‘you have 
much to make you happy — much that 
you would be sorry to lose. * 

‘I have a certain position,’ said Lau- 
rence, ‘and a certain amount of wealth, 
and I would not willing lose anything of 
either of these; but that is not because, in 
my heart, I value them; but because, if I 
lost them, I might in my heart cease to 
despise them. 

‘Surley,’ said Miss Merton, ‘ there is a 
better way of looking at the matter. You 
came into the world with all your lower 
ambitions satisfied for you. The ground 
therefore is quite clear for the higher am- 
bitions. That is why I think an aristocracy, 
as a rule, must always be the best govern- 
ors of men, for their ambitions, as a rule, 
are the only genuine ones. Think, too, 
what an advantage mere wealth is. The 
highest labour will never produce money, 
but generally requires it. ’ 

‘That is just the difficulty,’ said Lau- 
rence. ‘What shall I labour for? I am 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


29 


almost maddened sometimes, as I sit all the 
day idle, and seem to hear the hateful wasted 
moments slipped away from me. And I 
could do something, I am sure. I feel I 
have powers. ’ 

‘ I think, ’ said Miss Merton, ‘ that all I 
should say to you is, find something to do. 
The power to find or make an object is, I 
think, a great part of genius. However, ’ 
she said, with some sympathy in her voice, 
‘if you are in difficulties, I am sure I wish 
I could help you.^ 

‘ Well, ' said Laurence in a subdued 
voice, ‘I’m sure I beg your pardon for my 
egoism. I never talked so long about my- 
self in my whole life before ; and I promise 
never to do so again.’ 

Leslie meanwhile had moved away 
towards Mrs. Sinclair, who, looking par- 
ticularly fascinating, was still commanding 
the attentions of Dr. Jenkinson. The 
Doctor was standing by her, all deferent 
gallantry, and, to Leslie’s surprise, was 
saying something to her about Sappho. 

‘And now’,’ said Mrs. Sinclair, with a 
little appealing dainty smile, ‘I want to 
ask you something about the Greek An- 
thology too. I can’t read much Greek 
myself : but a gentleman who used to be 
rather kind to me, translated me a good 
deal of Greek poetry, once upon a time — 
when my husband, ’ she said, with a little 
shrug of the shoulders, ‘ used to go to 
sleep after his dinner. ’ 

Dr. Jenkinson here glanced suspiciously 
at Mrs. Sinclair. 

‘ Now, what I want you to tell me,’ she 
said, ‘ is something about some little— 
ahem — ^little love songs, I think they were 
— ipwTcx — something or other — I really 
can’t pronounce the name.’ 

The Doctor started. 

< And, Dr. Jenkinson, please,’ Mrs. Sin- 
clair went on in a voice of plaintive in- 
nocence, ‘ not to think me a terrible blue- 
stocking, because I ask you these ques- 
tions ; for I really hardly know any Greek 


I myself — except perhaps a verse or two of 
' the New Testament ; and that’s not very 
good Greek, I believe, is it ? But the 
gentleman who translated so much to me, 
when he came to these little poems I speak 
of, was continually, though he was a very 
good scholar, quite unable to translate 
them. Now, why should that have been, 
I w ant to know ? Are Greek love-poems 
very hard ?’ 

‘Well,’ said the Doctor, stammering, 
yet re-assured by Mrs. Sinclair’s manner, 

‘ they were probably — your friend per- 
haps — well — they w^ere a little obscure 
perhaps — much Greek is — or ’ 

‘ Corrupt ?’ suggested Mrs. Sinclair, 
naively. 

The w’ord w’as a simple one: but it 
sufficed to work a miracle on Dr. Jenkin- 
son. For the first time in his life to a 
lady who united the tw^o charms of beauty 
and fashion, to both of which he was 
eminently susceptible. Dr. Jenkinson was 
rude. He turned abruptly aw’ay, and 
staring hard at the moon, not at Mi’s. 
Sinclair, said simply, ‘I don’t know%’ 
w’ith the most chilling intonation of which 
those words are capable. He then moved 
a pace away, and sat dow’n on a chair close 
to Miss Merton. 

Mrs. Sinclair turned to Leslie, w’ith a 
flash in her eyes of soft suppressed laugh- 
ter. 

‘ How lovely the evening is !’ murmured 
Leslie, responding to the smile. 

‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Sinclair, looking out 
dreamily over the sea, ‘ it almost realises 
one’s idea of perfect beauty. ’ 

‘Keally, Mrs. Sinclair,' said Leslie, ‘you 
are certainly most Hellenic. First you 
talk of Sappho, now of Ideas of Beauty. 
Are you a Platonist ?’ 

‘Mr. Leslie, of course I am,’ said Mrs. 
Sinclair, somewhat misapprehending his 
meaning. ‘I never heard such an im- 
pertinent question. Platonism, however, 
is a very rare philosophy in these days, 
I’m afraid.* 


30 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


‘Ah, and so you too think Ave are all of 
ns very bad, do yon ?’ said Leslie. ‘ It 
may be so, of course ; and yet men at 
least often generalise very hastily and very 
wrongly, I am sure. How often, for in- 
stance, do we say that all wives nowadays 
are inconstant, simply because such are 
tlie' only ones we remember, not because 
they are the only ones we know.’ 

This S 2 )eech was quite in Mrs. Sinclair’s 
own manner, and she looked at Leslie 
with a smile of aiDpreciation half humor- 
ous and half sentimental. 

‘Ah,’ she began to say, in a voice that 
had just a touch of sadness in it, ‘ if we 
could but all of us love only when we 
ought, and wdiere w^e ought — ’ But here 
she paused. Her voice died away, and 
she leaned her head upon her hand in 
silence. 

Leslie was going to have si3oken ; but 
he was suddenly arrested by the sound of 
Dr. Jenkinson, clo^ beside him, talking 
to Miss Merton in a tone of unusual ear- 
nestness. 

‘ I don’t wonder, ’ he w^as saying, ‘ that 
you should feel in 2)eri3lexity sometimes ; 
whichever way we look at things, there 
wull be 23er23lexities. But there is such a 
thing as goodness ; and goodness in the 
end must triumph, and so in this large 
faith let us rest. ’ 

‘ And, ’ said Donald Gordon in his soft 
deferential voice, which always sounded 
as if he was saying something deej^ly de- 
votional, ‘don’t you think it is a higher 
thing to be good for goods’s own sake, 
than for God’s ? and, whatever men may 
believe about having another life, and a 
beautiful heaven, with gold streets, and 
with jewelled fortifications, don’t you 
think that morality really is, after all, 
its own reward ?’ 

‘ But what of those poor j^eople, ’ said 
Miss Merton, ‘ who cannot be moral — 
whom circumstances have kef)t from be- 
ing ever anything but brutalised ? I dare 
say,’ she said, turning to the Doctor, quite 


forgetting his sacred character, ‘ that I 
shall hardly be able to make you under- 
stand such a notion as that of living for 
God’s glory. But still, if there be not a 
God for whose glory we can live, and who 
in his turn will not leave us all to our- 
selves, what then ? Think of all those 
wdio, in spite of hard surroundings, have 
just had strength enough to struggle to 
be good, but to struggle only — whose 
wdiole moral being has been left w rithing 
in the road of life, like an animal that a 
cart-wheel has gone over, just lifting its 
eyes uj) with a j)iteous appeal at us who 
will not help it ’ 

Miss Merton looked at Dr. Jenkinson 
and i^aused. The moon shone tenderly 
on his silver hair, and his keen eyes had 
something very like moisture in them. 

‘Yes,’ he said ; ‘these are great, great 
difficulties. But there is another life in 
store for us — another life, and a God. 
And don’t think that the w orld is growung 
to disbelieve in these. Remember how 
many intelligent laymen count themselves 
members of the Church of England, sim- 
ply because they believe in these two 
doctrines. ’ 

‘It has ahvays been inexplicable to me,’ 
said Mr. Storks, w ho had been attracted by 
the sound of the Doctor’s voice, ‘ wLence 
this longing for a future life could have 
arisen. I suj^i^ose there are few things 
the very ^Dossibility of which science so 
conclusively disj^roves.’ 

‘ And yet, ’ said Laurence, wdio had been 
sjDeaking for a moment to Mrs. Sinclair, 
‘ I can’t hel]^ thinking at certain times 
that there may be a whole w^orld of things 
undreamed of by our scientific philosophy. 
Such a feeling is touched by the sight of 
an “Oraproanima me^,” or a “ Resur- 
gam,” on a quiet tombstone, or the sign 
of the cross made by a mother in hope and 
in sorrow on the forehead of her dead 
child.’ 

Miss Merton looked at Laurence wdth 
some wonder in her large exq^ressive eyes, 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


31 


Mr. Storks snorted, and Dr. Jenkinson 
blinked. 

‘ See, ’ said Donald Gordon, ‘ the moon- 
light grows brighter and brighter every 
moment. It is almost bewildering in its 
dazzling jDaleness. ’ 

‘ And there, ’ said Laurence, ‘ do you ; 
catch it ? — that is the light-ship on the I 
horizon, like a large low star. ’ 

Laurence seated himself on the balus- 
trade, and, leaning on his elbow, looked 
up into the clear hollow* skies. 

‘World upon world,’ he exclaimed at 
last, ‘ and each one crowded, very likely, 
with beings like ourselves, wondering 
wdiat this whole great universe is !’ 

‘And the vast majority of them believ- 
ing in a wise and just God,’ said Leslie, 

‘ for I see no reason why ours should, be 
the stupidest world in all creation.’ 

‘ Yes, ’ said Laurence, ‘ and in each world 
a small select band that has pierced through 
such a husk of lies, and has discovered the 
all-golden truth, that the universe is aim- 
less, and that for good and evil the end is 
all one.’ 

Dr. Jenkinson had a sensible horror* of 
the stars : and as soon as they Avere men- 
tioned, he turned round in his chair, giv- 
ing his back to the group. Miss Merton 
included ; wdiilst Mr. Storks w alked away, 
not wdthout dignity. 

‘ Mrs. Sinclair is going to sing in a mo- 
ment, ’ said Laurence ; ‘ some one is gone 
to fetch her guitar. ’ 

‘ Hush !’ exclaimed Miss Merton, ‘ do 
just listen to this.’ 

‘ Good gracious !’ said Laurence, in a 
whisper, ‘Mr. Storks is at my , aunt at 
last. ’ 

Mr. Storks had been w^atcliing ever since 
dinner for an opportunity of discussing | 
with Lady Grace the true j^osition of w^o- 
man, as settled by modern science. He ' 
was peculiarly full of this subject just 
now, having received only that morning a ; 
letter from a celebrated American physi- i 
cian, who stated very strongly as his j 


opinion, that the strain of what is called 
the higher education was most prejudicial 
to the functions of maternity, and that the 
rights of w^oman might very probably be 
I fatal to the existence of man. As soon as, 
he got hold of Lady Grace, he led up to 
! this point wdth startling rapidity ; having 
been perfectly charmed at starting to find 
that she fully agreed with him that the 
prejudices of the present day w^ere doing 
more harm to woman’s true interests than 
anything else. 

‘It is a pleasure,’ said Mr. Storks, ‘to 
discuss these matters with a jierson so 
thoroughly enlightened as yourself. You 
will of course see from wdiat Dr. Boston 
says, how entirely suicidal is the scheme 
of turning w^oman into a female man. 
Nature has marked out her mission for her 
jDlainly enough ; and so our old friend 
Milton was right in his meaning after all, 
w’hen he says that man is made for God, 
and woman for God through him, though 
of course the ex23ression is antiquated. ’ 

‘Surely,’ said Lady Grace wdth anima- 
tion, ‘ not only the expression is antiquat- 
ed, but the meaning also is contrary to all 
true fairness and enlightenment.’ 

‘ I confess, I don’t see that,’ said Mr. 
Storks w*ith a look of smiling deference. 

‘What!’ cried Lady Grace, ‘is it not 
contrary to reason — let me put it to your 
own candour — for a man wdio know^s that 
his wdfe, ages hence, wdll be a seraph sing- 
ing before the throne of God, to consider 
her only made for God through him— to 
consider her, indeed, as a thing made 
simply for her husband's use ?’ 

This answer of Lady Grace’s took Mr. 
Storks quite aback. He knew* not how^ 
to comport himself. His jaw fell — he 
stared — he said nothing. He felt as 
though he had been assassinated. But 
luckily at this very moment, liquid and 
clear, and exquisitely modulated, w*ere 
heard the sounds of Mrs. Sinclair’s voice, 
singing the follow*ing song : — 


THE NEW BEPUBLIC. 


Darling^ can you endure the liquid iceatheTy 
The jasmine-scented iwilightSy oh my dear? 

Ch' do you still rememhe)' how together 
We read the sad sweet Idyll ‘ Gumevei'ey 
Love, in one last year's twilighi ? 

Galeotto fii il libro, e chi lo scrisse.* 

Ahy the flowers smelt sweety and all unheeding 
Did I read to you that tended' talOy 

Oh my lorSy until my voicey in reading 
How those lover's greeted ^ passion-pale y' 
Trembled in the soft twilighL 

Galeotto fu il hbro, e chi lo scrisse. 

Then our eyes mety and then all was over — 

All the world receded cold and far ; 

And your lips were on my lips, my lover ; 

And above us shook a silver stary 

Through depths of melting twilight. 

Galeotto fu il libro, e chi lo scrisse. 

Darlingy no July will ever find us 

dn this earthy together y more. Our fates 

Wet'e but a moment cheated. TheUy behind us 
Shrilled his voice for whom CaXna f waitSy 
Shattering our one sweet twilight. 

Galeotto fu il libro, e chi lo scrisse. 

I shall know no more of summer weather y 
Nought will be for me of glad or fairy 

Till I join my darlingy and together 
We go for ever on the accursed airy % 

There in the dawnless twilight. 

Galeotto fu il libro, e chi lo scrisse. 


* What a lovely voice !* said Laurence to 
Miss Merton. ‘I wonder how she will 
sound singing before the throne.’ 

‘ She will be obliged to take lessons in a 
rather different style,’ said Miss Merton, 
unable to suppress a smile ; and then she 
suddenly checked herself, and looked 
grave. ‘Mrs. Sinclair has always inter- 
ested me, ’ she said. ‘ I often come across 
her in London, but I hardly know her. ’ 

‘ Mr. Laurence, ’ said Mrs. Sinclair, ‘you 


* Dante, Inferno, v. 137. f Ibid, v. 107. 
Jlbid, V. 31, 


must now make Mr. Leslie sing, for I dis- 
cover that he can play the guitar too. ’ 

Leslie was of course pressed^ and with 
some reluctance consented. 

‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘ we are all of us 
more or less moon-struck to-night, so I 
had best sing the silliest thing I know ; 
and as I don’t think anything can be 
sillier than a song I once wrote myself, I 
will sing that.’ 

He touched a few chords carelessly, and 
yet with the manner of a practised player ; 
paused for a moment, and then again 
striking the instrument, began to sing. 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


33 


N 

He was watched at first with merely a 
languid curiosity ; and Miss Prattle whis- 
pered to Lady Ambrose that his attitude 
was very affected ; but curiosity and criti- 
cism were both lost in surprise at the first 


sound of his rich and flexible voice, and 
still more so at the real passion which he 
breathed into the following words, rude 
and artless as they were : — 


Oh, her cheek, her cheek was pale, 
Hei' voice was hardly musical; 
But your proud grey eyes grew tender. 
Child, when mine they met. 

With a piteous self -surrender, 
Margaret. 

Child, what have I done to thee ? 
Child, what hast thou done to me ? 
How you froze me with your tone 
That last day we met / 

Your sad eyes then were cold as stone, 
Margaret. 

Oh, it all now seems to me 
A far-off weary mystery / 

Yet — and yet, he^' last sad frown 
Awes me still, and yet — 

In vain I laugh your memory down, 
Margaret. 


Leslie received loud thanks from many 
voices, especially from Lady Ambrose. 
Some, however, were almost silent from 
surprise at the feeling, which he seemed 
quite unconsciously to have betrayed. 
Mrs. Sinclair held out her hand to him, 
when no one was looking, and said quietly, 
‘ Thank you so much, I can’t tell you how 
I like your song. ’ 

‘Well,’ said Laurence, as the pai*ty 
moved indoors into the lighted drawing- 
room, ‘ we have been all of us very senti- 
mental to-night, and if we can’t get better 
now, I hope we shall sleep it off, and Avake 
U13 Avell and sane to-morrow morning. ’ 
This being Saturday night, there sprang 
U23 some vague mention of church. The 
nearest church however, was some miles 
distant, and a rumour arose amongst the 
guests that Dr. Jenkinson would perform 
the service and preach a sermon in the pri- 
vate chaiDel. 

3 


BOOK II. 

CHAPTEB I. 

On the following morning Lady Am- 
brose awoke somewhat out of spirits. 
Last night, Avhilst her maid was brushing 
her hair, she had pondered deeply over 
much that she had heard during the even- 
ing ; and her thoughts having been once 
started in such a direction, the conviction 
quickly dawned u^Don her that the W'orld 
Avas indeed becoming very bad, and that 
society Avas on the point of dissolution. 
This Avas quite a new vieAV of things to her, 
and it had all the charm of noA^elty. Still, 
hoAvever, she would j)robably haA^e found 
by the morning that she had successfully 
slei^t it off, if the post had not failed to 
bring her an invitation to the Duchess of 

’s garden-party at House, which 

she Avas expecting Avith some anxiety. As 


34 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


i: wa.«, therefore, her saints failed to re- 
cover i hemselves, and whilst she Avas being 
dressed, her thoughts wandered Avistfully 
a ray to the promised morning service in 
the ehaiiel. x\t breakfast, hoAvever, another 
blow awaited her. How a private chai^el 
had come to be mentioned last evening 
was not clear. Certainly there Avas no 
such appendage to Laurence’s villa, and 
the susceptibilities of Lady Ambrose re- 
ceived a seA^ere shock, as she learnt that 
the ministrations of Dr. Jenkinson, the 
comfort of which she AV'as looking forAvard 
to, AV’ere to take place in the theatre Avhich 
adjoined the house. She bore up, Iioav- 
ever, like a brave Avoman, and resolving 
that nothing, on her part at least, should 
be Avanting, she apjieared shortly before 
eleven o’clock, in full Sunday costume, 
AV’ith her bonnet, and her books of devo- 
tion. 

Mrs. Sinclair looked at her in dismay. 
‘I had thought,’ she said i3laintively to 
Laurence, ‘that, as this AA^as only a morn- 
ing performance, I need not make a toil- 
ette. And as for a jDrayer-book, Avhy, dear 
Mr. Laurence, I have not had one since I 
was confirmed.’ 

‘ Not Avhen you Avere married ?’ said 
Leslie. 

‘ Perhaps, ’ said Mrs. Sinclair pensively, 

‘ but I have forgotten all about that — noAV. ’ 

At this moment the gong sounded, and 
the whole party. Lady Ambrose and her 
bonnet amongst them, adjourned to the 
place of worship, Avhich was connected 
with the house by a long corridor. 

When the party entered they found 
themselves in a complete miniature thea- 
tre, Avuth the gas, as there Avere no Avin- 
dows, fully burning. It had been ar- 
ranged beforehand that the guests should 
occupy the boxes, the gallery being aj)- 
propriated to the servants, while the stalls 
were to remain completely empty. The 
congregation entered with great decorum 
and gradually settled themselves in their 
places with a subdued whispering. Lady 


Ambrose buried her face in her hands for 
a fcAv moments, and several of the younger 
•ladies folio Aved her example. Everyone 
then looked about them silently, in sus- 
pense and expectation. The scene that 
met their eyes Avas certainly not devotional. 
The Avhole little semicircle glittered Avith 
heavy gilding and Avith hangings of crim- 
son satin, and against these the stucco 
limbs of a number of gods and goddesses 
gleamed pale and prominent. The gal- 
lery rested on the heads of nine scantily 
draped Muses, Avho, had they been two 
less in number, might have passed for the 
seven deadly sins ; round the frieze in high 
relief reeled a long procession of Eaims 
and Bacchanals ; and half the harem of 
of Olympus sprawled and floated on the 
azure ceiling. Nor Avas this all. The cur- 
tain Avas doAvn, and, brilliantly illuminated 
as it Avas, displayed before the eyes of the 
congregation Eaust on the Brocken, Avith 
a long plume, dancing Avith the young 
Avitch, Avho could boast of no costume at 
all. The scene was so strange that every- 
one forgot to Avhisper or even to smile. 
There Avas a complete silence, and .the 
eyes of all Avere soon fixed upon the cur- 
tain in Avonder and expectation. 

Presently a sound Avas heard. A door 
opened, and Dr. Jenkinson, in his ordinary 
dress, entered the stalls. He looked de- 
liberately round him for a moment, as 
though he AA^ere taking stock of those pres- 
ent ; then, selecting the central stall as a 
kind of priedieii^ he knelt doAvn facing his 
congregation, and after a moment’s pause 
began to read the service in a simple, ear- 
nest A^oice. Lady Ambrose, however, 
though she kneAV her prayer-book as Avell 
as most Avomen, could not for the life of 
her find the place. The reason Avas not 
far to seek. The Doctor was oiDening the 
proceedings Avith the following passage 
from the Koran, which he had once de- 
signed to use in Westminster Abbey as the 
I text of a missionary sermon. 

I ‘Be constant in prayer,’ he began, in a 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


35 


voice treniulons Avitli emotion, ‘ and gi\'e 
alms : and wliat good ye have sent before 
for your souls, ye ^liall find it "vvitli God. 
Surely God seetli that which ye do. They 
say. Verily none shall see Paradise excejDt 
they be Jews or Christians. This is tlieir 
wish. Say ye. Produce your proof of 
this if ye speak truth. Nay, but he who 
resigneth himself to God, and doeth that 
Avhich is right, he sliall have liis reward 
Avith his Lord ; there shall come no fear 
on them, neither sliall they be grieved. ’ * 

Dr. Jenkinson then went on to the Con- 
fession, the xlbsolution, and a number of 
other selections from the English morning 
service, omitting, lioAveA^er, the creed, and 
concluded the whole an ith a short prayer 
of St. Francis XaA ier’s. 

But it Avas discovered that his voice, un- 
less he made an effort, Avas unhai>pily only 
partly audible from the position Avhich he 
occupied ; aiivl Laurence, as soon as the 
Liturgy Avas over, Avent softly up to him | 
to apprise him of the fact. Dr. Jenkinson 
Avas A’ery grateful for being thus told in 
time. It Avas fortunate, lie said, that the 
prayers only had been missed ; the ques- 
tion Avas, Avhere should he go for the ser- 
mon. Laurence, in a difiident manner, 
proposed the stage ; but the Doctor ac- 
cepted the jiroposal Avith great alacrity, 
and Laurence Avent immediately out Avith 
liim to conduct him to his iieAVjiulpit. In 
a leAv moments the curtain Avas obseiwed 
to tAvitch and tremble ; tAvo or three abor- 
tive pulls Avere e vidently being made ; and 
at last Faust and the young Avitch rajiidly 
rolled up, and discovered first the feet and 
] egs, and then the entire i)erson of Doctor 
Jenkinson, standing in the middle of a 
gorge in the Indian Caucasus — the re- 
mains of a presentation of Prometheus 
Bound Avhich had taken place last Febru- 
ary. 

The Doctor Avas not a man to be abashed 
by incongruities. He looked about him 


* Koran, chap. ii. Sale’s Translation. 


; for a moment : he slightly raised his eye- 
I broAvs, and then, Avithout the least discom- 
posure, and in a clear incisive voice, be- 
gan:— 

‘ In the tenth verse of the hundred and 
eleventh Psalm, it is said, ‘‘The fear of 
the Lord is the beginning of AAUsdom.” 

‘ The fear of the Lord, ’ he again repeated, 
more sloAvly, and Avith more emphasis, 
surveying the theatre as he spoke, ‘ is the 
beginning of Avisdom. ’ 

He then made a long pause, looking 
down at his feet, as if, although he held 
his sermon -T)ook in his hand, he Avere con- 
sidering hoAV to begin. As he stood there 
silent, the footlights shining brightly on 
his sih^er hair, Lady Ambrose had full 
time to A’erify the text in her j^rayer-book. 
At last the Doctor suddenly raised his 
head, and Avith a gentle smile of benignity 
jdaying on liis lij^s, shook oiien his manu- 
script, and thus proceeded : — 

‘ The main difficulty that occupied the 
early Greek. Philosophers, as soon as phil- 
osophy in its prope)' sense can be said to 
have begun, was the great dualism that seemed 
to run through all things. Matter and mind, 
the presence of imperfection, and the idea of 
perfection, or the unity and plurality of be- 
ing, were amongst the various forms in which 
the two contradictory elements of things were 
presided . to them, as demanding reconcile- 
ment or explanation. This manner of view- 
ing things comes to a head, so to speak, 
amongst the ancients, in the system of Plato. 
With him the sensible and the intelligible 
worlds stand separated by a great gulf, the 
one containhig all good, the other' of itself 
only evil, until we recognise its relation to the 
good, and see that it is only a shadow ayid a 
type of it. The icorld cf real existence is 
something outside, and virtually unconnected 
with, this world of men'e phenomena; and 
the Platonic prayer is that we should be taken 
out of the worid, rather than, as Christ says, 
with a fuller u'isdom, that we should be de- 
livered from the evil. 

^ Plato had, however, by thus dwelling on 


36 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


fJns antagonism in things, pared the way for 
a reconciliation — some say he even himsef 
began it. At any rate, it w<is through him 
that it was nearly, if not quite, accomplished 
by his disciqde Aristotle. Aristotle f rst sys^ 
tematised the great principle of evolution, and 
transfomned what had appeared to formei' 
thinkei'S as the dualism of mind and matter 
into a single scale of ascending existences. 
Thus what Plato had conceived of as two 
worlds, irei'e now presented as opposite p>oles 
of the same. The TTpcoTTj the world 

“ without form and void,” receiving form, 
at length culminated in the soul of man ; and 
in the soid of man sensation at length culmi- 
nated in pure thought.'' A sliglit cough 
here escaj^ed from Mrs. Sinclair. ‘ You 
will pei'haps think,' the Doctor went on, 
^that a sermon is not the place in which to 
discuss such differences of secular opinion; 
or you will pe)'haps ihmk that such differences 
are of no ve^'y great moment. But if you 
^ook under the surface, and at the inner mean- 
ing of them, you will find that they hear upon 
questions which are, or ought to be, of the very 
highest onoment to each of us — questions in- 
deed,' the Doctor added, suddenly lower- 
ing his inanuscrij)t for a moment, and 
looking shari)ly round at liis audience, 

‘ udiich ice all of us hei'e have very lately — 
very lately indeed — either discussed ourselves, 
or heard discussed by otJm^s.' This pro- 
duced an immediate sensation, esj)ecially 
amongst the feminine j^art of the listeners, 
to whom the discourse thus far had seemed 
strange, rather than significant. ‘ The 
question,' the Doctor continued, ^ is one of 
the relations of the spiritual to the natural ; 
and the opposition between the views of these 
two ancient jdt'dosophers is by no means ob- 
solete in OUT own century. Thet'e is even 
now far too prevalent a tendency to look upon 
the spiritual as something transcending and 
cormpletely separate from the natural ; and 
there is in the minds of many well-meaning j 
(tnd earnest persons a sort of alarm felt at j 
any attempt to bring the two into connection. 
This feeluig is experienced, not by Chi'istians 


only, hut by a large numhe)' of their oppo- 
nents. There is, for instance, no doctrine 
more often selected for attack by those who 
opjjose Christianity upon moral grounds, 
than that of which my text is an expression, 
I mean the doctrine of a morality enforced by 
rewards and punishments. Such morality, 
we hear it continually urged by men who set 
themselves up as advanced tlhuikers, is no 
morality at (dl. No action can he good, they 
tell us, that does not spring from the lore of 
good. Virtue is no longer virtue if it springs 
from fear. The very essence of it is to 
sjming from freedom. Now, these argu- 
memts, though specious at the first blush of 
the thing, are really, if we look them honestly 
in the face, to the utmost sludlow and unphilo- 
sophical. They are really hut so many de- 
nials of the great doctrine of evolution — so 
many attempts to set up again tlud absolute- 
antagonism between good and evil which it 
has been the aim of all the highei' thinkers, 
a7zd of Christ himself, to do away with. If, 
then, these modemi antics of Christianity 
come to us with such objections, let us not try 
to disguise the truth that the morality of our 
religion is based on fear. Let us rather 
boldly avow this, and try to poitd out to them 
that it is they, and not the Psalmist, th(d ai'e 
out of harmony with modern thought. For 
what is it that the sacred Sa'ipture says? 
“ The fear of the Lord is the beginning of 
wisdom.” The beginning, you will please 
to observe — the beginning only. It is not 
perfect wisdom, it is not perfect virtue ; but 
it is the beginning of both of these. It is, if 
I may be 'allowed the expression, the mond 
protoplasm — it is that out of ndiich they are 
both evolved. It is, as Aristotle woidd call 
it, their potentiality. The actuality is differ- 
entf'cyni the poienUality ; for pen feet love,” 
as St. John says, ^A^asteth out fear.” Put- 
ting together, then, the ideas of these two good 
men, St. John and Aristotle, we may say that 
the love of God — that is, tmie wisdom — is the 
actuality of the fear of Him. 

‘ This account of the origin of the true wis- 
dom may not, indeed, be applicable to each 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


37 


individual case. Some persons ’ — the Doc- 
tor’s voice here greAV very soft, and seemed 
as though it would almost break with feel- 
ing — ^ scmie j^orsons m<ty have been so for- 
tunate as to have received the truest wisdom 
into their hearts by education., almost with 
their mothers milk. But there are those not 
so fortunate, who may have needed the disci- 
pline of a godly fear to lead them upwards 
from a wallowing in the sensual sty^^ to- 
wards the higher' life. And just as this is 
true of many of us individually, so it is still 
more deeply true of the human race (ts a 
udiole. All study of history, and of socutl 
science, and of philosophy, is teaching tins to 
us every day with ina^easing clearttess. The 
human race, as soon as it became human, 
feared God before it loved Him. Its fear, 
as the Scripture puts it, was the beginning of 
its wisdom ; or as modern tl to light has put it, 
in slightly different words, the lo ve of justice 
sprang out of the fear of suffering injustice. 
Thus the end is different from the beginning, 
and yet springs out of it. Ethics, as it has 
been well said, are the finest fruits of hu- 
manity, but they are not its roots. Our rev- 
erence for truth, all our sacred family ties, 
and the purest and most exalted forms of 
matrimonial attachment, have each their re- 
spective origins in sef-intei'est. self-preserva- 
tion, and an imal appetite. 

‘ There is, I admit, in this truth something 
that may at first sight, repel us, and pefidiaps 
even prompt some of us to deny indignantly, 
thxit it is a truth at all. But this is really a 
cowardly and univorthy feeling, fatal to any 
true comprehension of God's dealings with 
man, and arising from a quite mistaken con- 
ception of our oum dignity, and our own 
connection with God. It is some such mis- 
taken conception as this that sets so many of 
us against the discoveries of modern science 
as to the origin of our own species, and, 
what is far worse, prompts us to oppose such 
discoveries with dishonest objections. How 
is it possible, some of us ask, that man, with 
his sublime conceptions of duty and of God, 
and his fine apparatus of reason, and so 


forth, should be produced by any process of 
evolution from a be((stly and irrcttional ape? 
But to ask such questions as these is really to 
call in question the power of God, and so to 
do Him dishonour. It is true that we cannot 
trace out, as yet, all the steq)s of this tvondeiful 
evolution ; but let us not be found, like doubt- 
ing Thomas, resolved not to believe until we 
have actually seen. And yet, if our failh. 
does indeed require strengthening, we have 
only to look a little more attentively at the 
commoiiest facts before us. For is it not, 
let me ask you — to take, for instance, a man's 
sublime faculty of reasoning and logical com- 
prehension— far more wonderf ul that a rea- 
soning man should have the same parents as 
a tvoman, than that they both should have the 
same parents as a monkey? Science an<l 
religion both alike teach us that with God all 
things are possible. 

‘ I just touch in passing upon this doctrine 
that we popularly call Darwinism, because it 
is the most familiar example to us of the doc- 
trbie of evolution. But the point which I am 
wishing to emphasize is not the outward evo- 
lution of man, but the inward, of which, how- 
ever, die former is an image and a likeness. 
Tliis theory of moral evolution, I wish to 
point out to you, is alike the Christian and 
the scientific theory; and I thus wish you to 
see that the very points in which science seems 
most opposed to Christianity are really those 
in which it most fundamentally agrees with 
it. I will therefore just ask you to notice 
how foolish and short-sighted those pei'.^ons 
are who think thdit a great result is lessened 
if it can be proved to have had small begin- 
nings. Is a state less truly a state because we 
know that it has sprung out of the germ of 
the family? Surely not. Neither is man 
less truly man if he have sprung from an 
ape; nor is love less truly love if it has 
sprung from fear. 

And so 710 w, since we have seen how sci- 
ence and Christianity are at 07 ie as to the rise 
I of the moral sentiments, I will pass on to a 
\ wider point, the character' and the history of 
: Christianity itself, both of which have been 


38 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


misiuidet'stood and misintei'preted for at least 
eigljteen hundred years ; and when I have 
pointed out how this great subject is being 
now exphtmed by the methods of modern sci- 
ence, I will on to an issue that is wider 
yet 

‘ The wo?'ld has hithefi'to failed to under- 
stand Christianity, because it studied it upon 
a false method — a method based upon that 
old dualist ic theory of things of which I have 
( (I ready spoken. Just as Plato looked upon 
mind as entirely distinct fnmi matter, so 
used Christians to look upon things saci'ed as 
entirely distinct from things secular. Bui 
now this middle wall of partition is being 
broken down by science, and by scientific 
criticism, and by a wider view of things in 
general. The primary way in which all 
this has affected Christianity, is by the 7iew 
spirit in which it has led us to study the 
Bible. TT e used to look upon the Bible as a 
book standing apart by itself, and to be m- 
terpreted by a peculiar canon of criticism. 
But we have now learnt that it is to be studied 
just like all other books; and we are now for 
the first time coming to understand what, in 
its true grandeur, a real revelation is. We 
are learning, in fact, tltat just as no single 
scripture ‘ ‘ is of an y private inteipretation 
still less is the entire body of the Scriptures. 
They, too, must be interpreted by their con- 
text. We must hapiire into their origin; 
we must ask diligently under what circum- 
stances they were written and edited, and for 
u'hat ends. J^or must we ever agavn fall 
into such quaint and simple mistakes as did 
cammenUitors like Origen, or Augustine, or 
Tertullian, or even Paul himself, whose dis- 
coveries of J\[essianic prophecies In writings 
like the Psalms for instance, are really much 
the same as tcould be a discovei'y on our part 
in Mr. Tennyson' s line on the death of the 
Duke of Wellington, “ The last great En- 
glishman is low,” a prophecy of the late 
Chancellor of the Exchequer. But to under- 
stand the meaning of any text, we must try 
to see what, from his position and education, 
the writer could have 'meant by it; not what | 


this or that Father, living long aftom^ards, 
fancied that he meant. Our motto in re- 
ligion, as in science, should be, ^ Were scire 
est per causas scire." 

Mf we study Christianity reverently and 
carefully upon these principles, xce shall see 
that it xcas not a thing that sprang up, as we 
used to fancy, xvithout any human ante- 
cedents, but that its roots reach back with 
many ramifications, into the westex'n and 
oriental thought of preceding centuries. We 
shall see how it abso't'H^d into itself all that 
was highest in Hebraistic Theism and in 
Hellenic thought — something too, let us ad- 
mit, of the failings, of both. I cannot here 
miter into any of the details of this, what may 
be truly termed pre-Christian Christianity. 
I can only briefly point out its existence, and 
its double origin, commenting on these bydhe 
following few lines from a great Gei'man 
ivriter. “ The yearn ing aftei' a higher rev- 
elation," he tells us, “ was the univ&i'sal' 
characteristic of the last centuries of the an- 
cient world. This was in the first place but 
a consciousness of the decline of the classical 
nations and their cidture, and the piresenti- 
ment of the approach of a new era; and it 
called into life not only Christianity, but also, 
and befo^'e it, Pagan ond Jewish Alexan- 
drianism, and other related developments." 

‘ This, then, is the great point to be borne 
in mind — viz. that God had been preparing 
the way for the coming of Christ long before 
he sent 'CElias, which xvas for to be." 
Neither John Baptist, no, nor One greate^r 
than John, was left by God (as the children 
of Israel wet'e left by Pharoah) to gather 
straw himself to make bricks. The materi- 
als were all jxrepared ready to their hands 
by their Heavenly Father. And so, let us 
be especially and prayerfully on our guard 
against considering Christianity as having 
come into the world at once, ready-made, so 
to speak, by our Saviour, as a body of 
theological doctrines. Any honest study of 
history will show us that the Apostles re- 
\ceived no such system; that our Lord Him- 
self never made axiy claim to the various 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


39 


characters with u'hich subsequent thought in- 
vested Him ; and that to attribute such claims 
to Him w.ould be an anachronism, of xohich 
He would Himself have scarcely understood 
the meaning. If we only clear our eyes of 
any false theologiccd glamour, a ven'y slight 
study of the inspired writer's uill at once 
show us this. We shall see how uncoidain 
and shifting at first everything was. We 
shall see what a variety of conflicting opin- 
ions the early Church entertained even upon 
the most fundamental subjects — such, for in- 
stance, as the identity of the God of the Old 
Testament xoith the God of the New, which 
teas denied by a large number of the early 
Christians: ice shall see how widely diver- 
gent wei'e the systems of Jewish and Pauline 
Christianity, and how discrepant and ten- 
tative are the accounts given by St. Paul and 
by the author of the Fourth Gospel of the 
mystical nature of Christ, whom they tried to 
identify with different mysterious potencies 
supposed by the Jewish- Alexandrian philoso- 
phers to be co-existent with God. And 
if we pursue the history of the Church a 
little farther, we shall find many more 
things to startle us. We shall find, for in- 
stance, the most renowned apologist of early 
Catholic times, a materialist, holding the 
maten'iality not of the soul of man only, but 
of God also. Nihil enim^' — these are this 

fathePs words — “si non corpus. Omne 
quod est, corpus est.” Thus we see,* said 
the Doctor elieerfiilly, looking round him 
with a smile of benignant triumph, and 
blinking with his eyes, ‘ that diffei'ence of 
opin ion about the dogmas of religion is noth- 
ing new. It existed in the Jewish Church ; 
the phenomenon was only prolonged by 
Christianity. Later, Judedsm and primi- 
tive Christianity were both made up of a 
variety of systems, all honestly and boldly 
thought out, differing widely from each oth- 
er, and called by the honourable appellation 
of hei'esies : and of these, let me remind you, 
it is the glory of the Church of England to 
be composed likewise. 

‘ Nor is this all, * he went on in a softer 


and more appealing tone ; ‘ not only are 
all these things so confused and doubtful; 
but we now see that, in the face of recent 
adticism, we cannot even be quite sure about 
any of the details of the divine life of our 
Lord. But in all this * — the Doctor’s voice 
here became still more aerial, and he fixed 
his eyes uj)on the painted ceiling of the 
theatre, as though he were gazing on some 
glorious vision — ‘ in cdl this tlm'e is nothing 
to discompose us. We can be quite sure that 
He lived, and that He went about doing good, 
and that in Him we have, in the highest sense, 
ev&idasting life. 

‘ Let us then no longer fight against the 
conclusions of science and of criticism, but 
rathei' see in them the hand of God driving 
us, even against our will, away from beliefs 
and teachings that are not really those of His 
son. If we do not do this — if we po'sist in 
identifying the fedse Christianity with the 
true — the false, when it is at last plucked 
rudely away from us, as it must be, will 
carry away a part of the true with it. And 
as long as we are in this state of mind, we 
are never for a moment safe. We can never 
open a philological review, or hear of a sci- 
entific experiment, without trembling. Wit- 
ness the discussions now engaging so much 
public attention an the subject of animal 
automatism, and the marvellous results which 
expcidments on living subjects have of late 
days revealed to us ; a frog with half a. 
brain having destroyed more theology than 
all the docto7's of the Church with their whole 
brains can even' build up again. Thus does 
God choose the “ weede things of this world 
to confound the wise.** Seeing, then, that 
this is the state of the case, we should surely 
learn henceforth not to identify Christianity 
with anything that science can assail, or even 
question. Let us say rathen', that nothing is 
or can be essential^to the religion of Christ 
which, when once stated, can be denied with- 
out absurdity. If we can only attain to this 
conception, ice shall see t)'uly that this our 
faith is indeed one ^^that no man taketh 
away from us.** 


40 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


^ If ice he thus once sUiblished in the 
faith f all human history, and the history 
of Christianity especially, will assimie for 
us a new sacredness and a new significance. 
We shall recognise gladly its long struggles 
of^ growth, and its sti'uggles for existence, 
and see how in all these were at work the 
great principles of evolution. We shall see 
how Christian perfection emerped gradually 
out of imperfection — nay, that it was only 
through imperfection that this perfection was 
possible. For although, as we now know, 
all the various theological systems that have 
sprung up about Christianity, and have been 
so long current, are not Christianity, are 
most of them, indeed, not even sense — yet it 
was through these that true Christianity made 
its way, cmd extended itself in a corrupt and 
ignorant world. For the world has been 
given from age to age just so much of the 
truth as it has been able to bear, and it is 
only, let us remember, from receiving it 
tempered in this wise proportion, that it has 
been able to receive it at all. But these times 
of the world's probation are now passing 
away. It is now at length ceasing to be un- 
der tutors and governors;" it is learning 
to put away childish things." It is coming 
to a sense that it is now filled to receive 
Christ's ti'uth pure, and without any ad- 
mixture or wrappage of falsehood. And so, 
as it looks back over all the various opinions 
^once so fiercely agitated about religion, it 
recognises in all of them a common element 
of good, and it sees that all theologians and 
all sects have really agreed with one another, 
and been meaning the same thing, even when 
they least suspected or wished it. Nor is it, 
as modei'n study is showing us, varieties of 
Christianity only that this deeper unity U7i- 
derlies, but all other religions also. It has 
been well obs&t'ved by a great Boman Catho- 
lic writer now living, that whenevei' any 
great saintliness of life is to be observed 
amongst infUlels and hm'etics, it is always 
found to be due to the presence of certain 
beliefs and rules which belong to the Catho- 
lics. And in like manner, we may say too. 


that whenever any great saintliness of life 
is to be observed amongst Catholics, it is due 
to the presence of ce^'tain beliefs and rules 
that belong to the infidels and the h&i'etics — 
and indeed to all good men, no matter what 
their religion is. 

* Such are the views that all the most en- 
lightened men of our own day are coming 
to. But the process is gradual; and mean- 
while let us not rebuke our weaker brethren, 
if for the present “ they follow not after us;" 
let us rather bear with them, and make all 
allowance for them ; for we must remember, 
as I have said befcn'e, that those evils to which 
they still cling, but from which we, unde)* 
God's me)'cy, are trying to free ourselves, 
have done good service in their time; a)id 
that even such doct)*ines as those of ete)'nal 
punishment, or of sacerdotal absolution, dr 
the subtleties of sacf)*amental systems, or' the 
mystical paradoxes of the Athanasian Creed, 
have assisted in the evolution of the good — 
have been, in some sense, schoolmastei's to 
bring men to God." And eve)i if we do 
occasionally come across swne incident in the 
history of our religion — some doctrine or 
body of doctrines, which seems, humanly 
speakmg, to subserve no good end at all — 
such as our own Thirty-nine Articles — let us 
not suffer* such to try our faith, but let us 
trust in God, believing that in His seo*et 
councils He has found scnne fitting use eveii 
for these ; because we know how many things 
there are, in every branch of inquiry, that 
we cannot explain, and yet we know that 
nothing happens but by those immutable and 
eternal laws which our Heavenly Fatho* has 
Himself ordained, and of which He is Him- 
self the highest synthesis. 

‘ And now,' said the Doctor, with a fresh 
briskness in his voice, ‘ I shall pass o)i to 
that wider point to which I have already 
alluded, which is indeed that which I wish 
chiefly to impress upmi you, and to which 
all that I have hithei'to said has been pre- 
paratory. We have come to see how genuine 
Christianity has been enabled to grow and 
extend itself cmly through an admixture of 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


41 


irhat we now recognii^e ns evil. A)i<l seeing 
this, we shall he led on to a conclusion that 
is much wider. It has been said that it is the 
part of the devil to see in good the germs of 
evil. Is it not also the part of tie devil not 
to recognise in evil the germs of good ? May 
we not indeed say with St. Augustine, that 
absolute evil is impossible, because, if ire 
look at it rightly, it is always rising up into 
good? And so, may we not recognise in all 
things the presence and the ' providence of 
God? 

^ Perhaps this view may at first sight seem 
difficult. Some of us may final that we have 
a certain amount of pride to sir alio ir before 
we can cheerfully acnpiiesce in it. It is not 
an uncommon thing to find persons who 
secretly flatter their vanity by cherishing a 
gloomy view of the world and of mankhal. 
But if we can only get free from th,ese little- 
nesses, and attain to that view which I have 
indicated, it 'ir ill enlarge and ameliorate our 
own philosophy of things, and bring life and 
trust to us, in the place of doubt and de- 
spondency. Evil will then appear to us sim- 
ply as undeveloped good — as something which 
we may acquiesce in without complaining — 
as something that has assisted in the develop- 
ment of whatever is good in the present, and 
which will itself one day become good in the 
f uture. Indeed it is not too much to say that 
all things, in a certcdn sense, existed first in 
the form of evil. It was not till after the 
Spirit of God had worked on the primeval 
matter, that God pronounced the world to be 
“ very good.'' 

^ And so, if we consider' the subject thus, 
we shall learn to put a stop to all those fretful 
wailings over the badness of our own times 
of which we hear so much — wailings over the 
imbelief of our neighbours, the corruption of 
society, the misery of the poor, the luxury of 
the rich, or the decline of commercial mo- 
rality. The present is an age of change, 
and is therefore at every turn presenting to 
us some new feature. But if these come to 
us in the apparent guise of evils, let us not 
uselessly bemoan them ; but let us believe that 


they are, even if we cannot see that it is so, 
but the beginnings, the embryos of new good. 
Indeed, by the eye of faith, even in the pres- 
ent day, may be discerned the beautiful spec- 
tacle of good actually shining through evil. 
May we not, for instance, discern the well- 
being of the rich through, the misery of the 
poor ? and again, the honest industry of the 
poor through the idleness of the rich ? 

Mf then, these things be so, surely we may 
look on unmoved at the great changes and 
commotions that are going on ai'ound us, and 
the new forms that society, and thought, and 
politics are assuming, even although for the 
moment they may appear threatening. And 
if in this great storm our Master have fallen 
asleep, and no longer speak audibly to us, 
let us not be of little faith and fearful, and 
try to awaken Him with our foolish clamours; 
but let us trust all to Him, and follow His ex- 
ample. For really, if we do but trust in 
God, there is no ground for fear, but “a// 
things loork together for good to him that be- 
lieveth. " And, however the matter may strike . 
us at first sight, the times we live in are really 
the times that are best fitted for us ; and we 
shall see, if we will but think soberly, that we 
could not, as a whole, alter anything in them 
for the better. I do 'not mean that we have 
not each of us his own work marked out for 
him to do ; but all this work is strictly in re- 
lation to things as they are. God has given 
to us the general conditions under which we 
are to serve Him, and these are the best and 
indeed the only conditions for us. Doubtless, 
if we each do the duty that lies before us, 
these conditions will be slowly and insensibly 
changed by us ; but we shall ourselves change 
also, as 'well as the conditions ; what I 'mean 
is, that supposing by a sudden act of will ive 
could do what we pleased with the conditions 
of the age, ive, being as loe are, should not be 
really able to make \he age better. We should 
not be really able to make it different. Any 
Utopia we might imagine would, if it were 
a thinkable one, be only our own age in a 
masquerading dress. For we cannot escape 
from our age, or add, except in a very small 


42 


THE NEVv KEPUBLIC. 


degree, anyiliing that is really neve to it Nor 
need we wish to do so. Our age is for us 
the best age possible. TI e are its childre)i, 
and it is our only true pwrent. But though 
we cannot alter our time at a stroke, so to _ 
speak, no, not even in imagination, we can 
all of us help to do so little by little, if we do 
cheerfully the duties that are set before us. 
A)id if we do this, which is what Christ bids 
us to do, then is Christ made manifest in us, 
and lives in the hearts of every one of us ; 
and in a far higher sense than any mere 
physical one, He is risen from the dead. 
And if lie be not so risen in and for us, 
then are we indeed, as the Apostle says, 
all men most miserable. ” 

‘ Let us therefore, witli a large hope for the 
f uture, and a cheerfid contentment with the 
present, be willing to leave die world in the 
hands of God, knowing that He has given 
us what coriditions and what circumstances 
are best for' us. Let us see all things in God, 
and let us become in Him, as Plato says, 
“ spectators of all time, and of all e.visience.'^ 
And thus, in spite of the difficulties pi'esented 
to us by all th,e evil that is done under the 
sun,'"' we shall perxeive that all things will, 
nay must, come right in God's own time; 
and the apparxnt dualism of good and evil 
at last become a glorious unity of good. But 
let us rxmernber also that ‘’-the Kingdom of 
God corneth not with observation and I 
woidd conclude rny seranon with ceidairi me- 
rnorxible rvords spoken by •Christ Himself, 
though unfortunately not to be found in the 
Gospels, but preserved to us by Clemerd of 
Alexandria. “ The Lord,'^ Clement tells 
us, “being asked when His kingdom should 
come, said. When two shall be one, and tlad 
which is without as that which is within, and 
the male with the female — neither rnede nor 
female.''^ 

‘ And now ’ (at the sound of this 

word the whole congregation rose auto- 
matically to their feet), ‘I will ask you,’ 
the Doctor went on after a loause, ‘ to con- 
clude this morning’s service by doing 
what I trust I have shown that all here 


may sincerely and honestly do. I mean, 

I will ask you to recite after me the Apos- 
tles’ Creed.’ 

This appeal took the whole congregation 
quite aback. But there was no time for 
wonder. Dr. Jenkinson at once began ; 
nor was his voice the only sound in the 
theatre. Lady Ambrose, pleased, after all 
that she had heard the night previous, to 
make public profession of her faith, esi^ec- 
ially in a place where it could not be 
called in question, followed the Doctor au- 
dibly and iDromptly ; Miss Prattle follow- 
ed Lady Ambrose ; Lady Violet Gresham, 
who was busy with one of her sleeve-links, 
followed Miss Prattle ; Lady Grace, from 
quite another part of the house, followed 
Dr. Jenkinson on her own account ; Mr. 
Stockton re23eated the first clause in a loud 
voice, and then relapsed into marked si- 
lence ; Mr. Luke only opened his lijDS to 
sigh out audibly in the middle a disconso- 
late ‘ Heigh ho !’ Mr. Storks blew his nose 
with singular vigour through the whole 
proceeding ; Mrs. Sinclair, just towards 
the end, tajDped Leslie’s arm gently with 
her fan, and said to him in a whisper, ‘ Do 
you real ly believe all this ?’ 

When all was over, when the Doctor 
had solemnly pronounced the last ‘Amen,’ 
he looked about him nervously for a mo- 
ment, as if the question of how to retire 
becomingly suddenly dawned uj)on him. 
Luckily he perceived almost directly a 
servant standing in readiness by the cur- 
tain. The Doctor frowned slightly at the 
man ; made a slightly impatient gesture 
at him ; and Faust and the young witch 
again covered the preacher from the eyes 
of his congregation. 


CHAPTEE II. 

The blinds were half-down at luncheon 
in the dining-room, to keejJ out the bril- 
liant summer sun. The guests dropjDed in 


THE NEW PvEPUBLIC. 


43 


by ones and twos, somewhat tired and ex- 1 
liaiisted by the divine service of the morn- 1 
ing ; and the sight of the table was not a 
little refreshing to them, as it shone 
whitely in the soft gloom, with its flowers 
and ferns, and its day -lit glimmer of glass 
and silver. Soon, however, a piece of 
news was circulated that was even more 
refreshing than the luncheon. Dr. Jenk- 
inson, owing to his late exertions, and the 
gas-light, and the draughts upon the stage, 
was suffering from a headache, which in- 
clined him to keep his room ; and accord- 
ingly an unhoped-for prospect of freely 
discussing the sermon dawned brightly 
upon the whole party. 

Mr. Stockton, who had been much struck 
with the strictly i)rosaic style of Dr. Jenk- 
inson’s discourse, and who had been se- 
cretly contrasting this with the more im- 
passioned character of his own mind, was 
the first to begin. 

‘The sermon was perhaps ingenious,’ 
he said, turning to Lady Ambrose, ‘but 
I’m afraid our friend’s forte is certainly 
not poetry,’ 

‘ Surely, ’ said Donald Gordon with ex- 
treme solemnity of manner and only a 
slight twinkle in his eye, ‘his forte is 
-^something far better. Poetry can only 
make us happy for a little while. Such 
doctrines as we have heard this morning 
ought to make us happy always. ’ 

As for Lady Ambrose, to whom both 
- these remarks were addressed, she was in 
doubt what altogether to think of the 
matter. More than half her heart inclined 
her to look upon Dr. Jenkinson as a valu- 
able ally ; but there was yet, all the while, 
a fatal something that wliisj^ered to her a 
vague distrust of him. Slie was therefore 
waiting anxiously to hear what would be 
said by others, before taking any side her- 
self ; her mind all the while being busy 
with the profoundest questions. This sus- 
pense of judgment produced a certain 
gravity and depression in her, whicli was 
visible on her face, and whicli seemed to 


communicate itself to nearly everyone at 
her end of the table. For Lady xlmbrose 
was a communicative woman. Her sx)irits, 
good or bad, were generally caught by 
those near her. As for Mr. Herbert, how- 
ever, no one else seemed to dei:)ress Mm. 
Low, slow, and melancholy, his accents at 
once caught the ear of Lady Ambrose. 

‘ have heard to-day, ’ he said to Mrs. 
Sinclair, who was sitting next him, ‘an 
entirely new and in e\'ery way memorable 
doctrine, which I never heard before from 
the mouth of man, woman or child : nor 
can I tell ])y what steps any human being 
could have arrived at it. I have heard 
that the world — tlie world as it is — could 
not be better than it is ; that there is no 
real sorrow in it — no real evil — no real 
sin. ’ 

‘ Poor Dr. Jenkinson !’ said Mrs. Sin- 
clair, also in a melancholy voice ; ‘ I su})- 
pose he has never loved. ’ 

‘ xHi, ’ exclaimed Mr. Stockton, his voice 
was melancholy as well, ‘ the whole teach- 
ings of that school have always seemed to 
me nothing more than a few fragments of 
science imperfectly understood, obscured 
by a few fragments of Christianity im^Der- 
fectly remembered. ’ 

‘You forget,’ said Leslie, ‘that Dr. Jen- 
kinson’s Christianity is really a new firm 
trading under an old name, and trying to 
purchase the goodwill of the former estab- 
lishment. ’ 

Lady i^mbrose, who had not liked Les- 
lie so much on further acquaintance as she 
had at first exi)ected she should, was very 
indignant at him for so flij^pant a speech 
as this — she felt sure it was flippant, 
though she did not quite understand its 
meaning — but once again Mr. Herbert’s 
grave accents arrested her. 

‘ It is simply, ’ he was saying to Mrs. 
Sinclair, evidently alluding to the same 
subject, ‘ it is simply our modern atheism 
trying to hide its own nakedness, for the 
benefit of the more prudish part of the 
IDublic, in the cast grave-clothes of a Christ 


u 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


'svlio, wliethcr lie be risen or no, is very 
certainly, as tlie angel said, not here. ’ 

‘All discussion of such matters seems 
to me but a diseased activity,’ said Mr. 
Rose, raising languidly a white deprecat- 
ing hand. 

Mr. Storks too, though for different 
reasons, was apparently of the same opin- 
ion. • 

‘ In his main i^oints,’ he said with a se- 
vere dogmatism that seemed designed to 
end all further controversy, ‘ and i^utting 
aside his quasi-religious manner of express- 
ing it — which considering his position 
may be pardoned — I conceive Dr. Jenkin- 
son to have been entirely right. ’ 

Hitherto Lady Ambrose’s views had 
been wavering to and fro, in a sad uncer- 
tainty. But now her mind at once cleared. 
Her worst sus23icions of the Doctor were 
confirmed by this fatal commendation. 
The gloom on her face deejDened, and she 
had a look almost of distress about her as 
she turned to Laurence. 

‘A’ou look tired,’ he said to her. 

‘No,’ said Lady Ambrose wearily : ‘at 
least, 2 ^erhaps I am a very little. Do you 
know, I always think one feels rather dull 
if one doesn’t get the letters one ex23ects. ’ 
‘Perha23s you don’t know,’ said Lau- 
rence, ‘ that the letters you got this morn- 
ing were only those of last night’s 250st. 
Our Sunday letters we are oldiged to send 
for, and they don’t generally come till 
later on in the day.’ 

‘ Really !’ exclaimed Lady Ambrose, 
with suiq^rise, as a smile slowly S23read 
over her face, and her frank eyes lit U2) 
again. ‘ The Duchess couldn’t have for- 
gotten it,’ she said to herself half-con- 
sciously. Strangely enough, a new warmth 
it seemed, had dawned upon her, and her 
ice-bound gloom began to thaw — to thaw 
only, however, not to eva 2 )orate. It did 
not go ; it only became voluble. 

‘Do you know, Mr. Laurence,’ she be- 
gan, ‘ I have been thinking over and over 
again about many of the things that were 


said last night ; and I really am afraid that 
the world is getting very bad. It is very 
sad to think so ; but, with all this infidel- 
ity and wickedness of which we hear so 
much. I’m afraid it is true. For my own 
part, you know, there is nothing I dislike 
so much as to hear the Bible 23rofanely 
s23oken about ; though, of course, I know 
one is tem23ted sometimes to make jokes 
out of it oneself. And then,’ Lady Am- 
brose added — her ideas did not always fol- 
low one another in the strictest order — 
‘ hardly a week 23asses without some new 
scandal. I had a letter only this morning 
telling me all the particulars about Colonel 
Eardley and 230or Lady Arthur. And that 
man, you knoAV — just fancy it ! — it will 
not be very long before we shall be oblig- 
ed to receive him again. However, said 
Lady Ambrose, with a sligntly more cheer- 
ful accent, ‘ that sort of thing, I believe, 
is confined to us. The middle classes are 
all right — at least, one always hears so. ’ 

At this moment Lord Allen’s voice was 
heard. 

‘But now,’ Lady Ambrose went on to 
.Laurence, very slightly moving her head 
in the direction of Lord Allen, and S23eak- 
ing in a low tone, ‘ how different he is !’ 

Lady Ambrose had the greatest admira- 
tion for Lord Allen, though her acquaint- 
ance with him had hitherto been of the 
slightest ; and Laurence, not knowing how 
to res 2 )ond to all her late remarks, was 
glad that her attention Avas thus called 
elscAvliere. 

‘Don’t you think,’ Allen Avas saying, 
half addressing himself to Mr. Herbert, 
half to Mr. Luke, ‘that though at the 
2 )resent moment things as they are may 
be Avorse than they have ever been before, 
there are yet ideas amongst us of things 
as they might be, that are in adA^ance of 
what has ever been before ? I knoAV quite 
Avell liOAV society is falling to 23ioces, and 
hoAV all our notions of duty are becoming 
confused or lost. I know too hoAV utterly 
without any religion Ave are ’ — (Lady Am- 


THE NEW BEPUBLIC. 


45 


brose started) — ‘ at least, any religion that 
one man can express to another, and that 
can enable men to act in concert. But 
still, I can’t heljj feeling that, in spite of 
all this, a higher class of concej^tions both 
of religion and morality, and social rela- 
tions also, is forming itself in the minds of 
thinking men.’ 

‘ Perfectly ti*t|e. Lord Allen, ’ said Mr. 
Luke, ‘ perfectly true ! It is indeed the 
very essence of the cultured classes to be 
beyond their time — to have, indeed, every 
requisite for making everything better, 
except the practical power. As you say, 
what man’s life ought to be — what true 
morality is — what is true sense, and what 
is true nonsense — these are matters never 
at any time distinguished so truly as by 
some of us in the latter half of the nine- 
teenth century. Only, unfortunately,’ 
said Mr. Luke, sighing slowly, and look- 
ing round the table, ‘ the dense ignorance 
of the world at large hampers and hinders 
such men as these, so that all that their 
teaching and their insight can do, is only 
to suggest a Utoj)ia in the future, instead 
of leading to any reality in the ijresent. ’ 

‘All my happiness is in a kind of Uto- 
pia,’ sighed Mrs. Sinclair. 

‘ Yes — yes, ’ said Mr. Luke wearily ; * so 
in these days must be the haj^piness of all 
of us — except that of the world at large. ’ 

Mr. Storks was here heard clearing 
his throat. With an ominous i^ngilistic 
smile he turned towards Mr. Luke. 

‘ Are you quite sure, ’ he said, that the 
reason why your friends do nothing j^rac- 
tical is not because they Avill build Uto- 
pias ? I, as I have already said, entirely 
hold with Dr. Jenkinson that the world is 
as good as it can be — has, indeed, been 
always as good as it could liave been — has, 
that is, been always persistently progress- 
ing by one constant course of evolution. 
I don’t myself profess to be a student of 
history ; but, as far as I at all understand 
its teachings, the one thing it most clearly 
shows to us is, that what strikes a super- 


ficial observer as simi)ly the decadence of 
old orders of things, is really, under the 
surface, the birth of the new. Indeed,’ 
said Mr. Storks, shrugging his shoulders, 

‘ of course it must ])e so. We are all part 
of Nature ; and, little as we think it, we 
are all working together by invincible and 
inviolable laws. Nature will have her own 
way ; and those who have sftidied her 
carefully know that her way is always the 
best. Even supposing we could trans- 
plant ourselves into some different, some 
more advanced state of society, my dear 
sir, do you think we should be any hap- 
pier there ? As much happier, I suppose, 
as you or I should be if we were trans- 
lated into tlie heaven our nurses used to 
tell us of, where nothing was done but to 
sing Tate and Brady’s psalms with the 
angels to all eternity. The air of our own 
age is the only air fit for us. In any other 
we should languish.’ 

‘I languish in this,’ said Mr. Luke, 
looking up to the ceiling. 

Scarcely were the words out of his 
mouth than Mr. Saunders exclaimed, in 
his most excited and shrillest voice, ‘I 
deny it — I entirely deny it !’ 

Mr. Luke was thunderstruck. Even 
Mr. Storks was taken aback by the au- 
dacity of the contradiction ; and as for 
the rest of the company, they could not 
conceive where on earth Mr. Saunders had 
left his manners. Mr. Storks, however, 
was still more astonished, and still less 
pleased, when he discovered, as Mr. Saun- 
ders proceeded, what was the real meaning 
of his speech. 

‘I entirely deny,’ Mr. Saunders w^ent 
on, ‘ that the ways of Nature are the best 
ways. The belief that they are so is of 
all faiths the one that most obviously con- 
tradicts* experience. Did I accej)t this, I 
could accejjt anything-— Transubstantia- 
tion even. I should literally feel that I 
had no right to condemn any doctrine 
because it was groundless, gratuitous, and 
I absurd. This faith in the goodness of 


46 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


Nature — that it is a faith, is not that | 
enough to condemn it ? AVhat but faith, i 
let me ask, has enslaved and stunted the 
world Inthei-to ? And this }>artieular faith, j 
I would remind you, whicdi you flatter | 
yourself will oppose religion, has been in I 
most eases its child, and is always ready 
to be its ytirent. I on the contrary main-' 
tain that, far from being the best. Nature 
is the most odious of things — that the 
whole universe is constructed on the most 
hateful i:)rinciples ; in fact, that out of the 
primordial atoms only one thing has de- 
velojDed itself in which the good outweighs 
the evil ; and that is the one thing that is 
usually oi^posed to Nature — man, and the 
reason of man. ’ 

Mr. Storks turned sharply round, and, 
with an awful look in his eyes of con- 
temi^tuous indignation, stared Mr. Saun- 
ders into silence. He held him fixed in 
this way for a few moments, and then said 
to him in a voice of grim unconcern, ! 
‘May I trouble you for the mustard.’ | 
Then again turning to Mr. Luke, ‘ You | 
see,’ he proceeded, ‘what I take to be! 
civilisation — indeed, the whole duty of 
man — is the gradual self-adaptation of the 
human organism to its environment — an 
adax)tation which must take place, and 
any attemi^ts to hinder Avhich are simply 
neither more nor less than disease. Prog- j 
ress, which it is our highest life to fur- j 
tiler, is a thing that will continue despite 
the opiiosition of individuals. Its ten- ! 
dencies are beyond the control of indi- 1 
viduals, and are to be sought in the spirit 
of the age at large, — not — if you will for- 
give me the word — in the crotchets of this 
or that thinker. And it seems to me to 
be the hoijeful and distinguishing feature 
of the present day, that men are learning 
generally to recognise this trutli — that 
they are learning not to cry out against 
lirogress, but to investigate its grand and 
inevitable laws, and submit themselves 
willingly to them. And the tendency of 
our own day is, I am proud to say, a 


tendency towards firm, solid, verifiable 
knowledge, and, as a result of this, to- 
wards the acquisition of a firm and solid 
happiness also.’ 

‘To me,’ said Mr. Herbert, ‘it seems 
rather that-the only hoxie for the iiresent 
age lies in the iDOSsibility of some indi- 
vidual wiser than the rest, getting the 
necessary power, and in the most arbi- 
trary wa}^ possible putting a stop to 
this progress — utterly stamj)ing out and 
obliterating every general tendency pe- 
culiar to our own time. Mr. Storks will 
perhai3s think me very foolish. Perhai)s 
I am. I freely own that I could more 
easily tell a good action, if I saw it, than 
a good jjiece of X)rotoplasm, and that I 
think the understanding of a holy moral 
law, by which an individual may live, of 
infinitely more imj^ortance than the dis- 
covery of all the laws of progress in the 
world. But let Mr. Storks despise me, 
and not be angry with me ’ 

‘My dear sir,’ interi)osed Mr. Storks, 
Avith a gruff courtesy, ‘ why should I do 
either the one or the other ?’ 

‘Because,’ said Mr. Herbert, sliglitly 
AvaAung his hand, and speaking with great 
emi^hasis, ‘ had I only the 2 )ower, I would 
myself j^ut a forcible stoj) to all this evo- 
lution. I Avould make a clean sweej) of all 
the imjjrovements that the present day so 
much A^aunts. I Avould collect an arni}^ of 
strong, serviceable, honest Avorkmen, and 
send them to bloAv U23 Manchester, and 
Birmingham, and Liveiq30ol, and Leeds, 
and Wolverham23ton ’ 

‘ And all the artisans in them ?’ asked 
Mr. Storks. 

‘Well,’ said Mr. Herbert, smiling, ‘I 
Avould, i3erhai3s, give the artisans notice 
of this gun230wder jdot of mine. And 
yet their existence has always 23resented 
a i3ainful difficulty to me. For if there is 
no other life, I think they have a very bad 
time of it here ; and if there is another 
life, I think that they Avill all certainly be 
damned. But it is not only Manchester 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


47 


and Birmingham that I would blow up. 
I would blow U13 also every anatomical 
museum in the land, save such as were 
absolutely necessary for the use of pro- 
fessional doctors, that the foul sights in 
them should not taint men’s imaginations, 
and give them an appetite for beastly 
knowledge. I Avould destroy every rail- 
way, and nearly every steam-engine ; and 
I would do a number of other things of a 
like sort, by way of preparing the ground 
for a better state of society. Indeed, bo 
far am I from believing that an entirely 
different and better state of society is 
unthinkable, that I believe it to be not 
impracticable ; and I am at the present 
moment collecting money, from such as 
will here and there confide in me, for the 
purpose of purchasing land, and of found- 
ing a community upon what seem to me 
to be true and healthful principles — a 
Utopia, in fact — in which I trust may 
be once again realised upon earth those 
two things to which we are now such 
strangers — order and justice.’ 

‘I once began a book about justice,’ 
said Laurence, ‘ on the model of Plato’s 
Kepublic. ’ 

‘ What is Plato’s Kepublic ?’ said Lady 
Ambrose. ‘ Tell me. ’ 

‘ It is a book, ’ said Laurence, ‘ which 
describes the meeting of a party of friends 
who fell discussing high toi^ics just as we 
are doing, and, amongst others. What is 
justice ?’ 

‘ What !’ exclaimed Lady Ambrose. ‘ Did 
not they know that ?’ 

‘You forget,’ said Laurence, ‘that this 
was very long ago. ’ 

‘ To be sure, ’ said Lady An\brose ; ‘ and 
they were of course all heathens. Well — 
and what conclusions did they come to as 
to the nature of justice ?’ 

‘ At first, ’ said Laurence, ‘ though Soc- 
rates himself was amongst them, they were 
all completely at a loss how to define it. 
But at last they hit uj^on the notion of 
constructing an ideal perfect state, in 


which of course justice would be lurking 
somewhei’e. Now there are in .life, Plato 
says, four great virtues — wisdom, courage, 
temperance, and justice ; and no sooner 
has the ideal state been constructed, than 
it appears that three of these virtues are 
si^ecially illustrated and embodied, each 
in a particular class of citizens. Thus, 
wisdom is especially embodied^in the theo- 
retical i3oliticians and religious speculators 
of the day ; courage is embodied in the 
practical men who maintain and execute 
the regulations and orders of the philoso- 
phers ; and temperance is embodied in 
the commercial and industrial classes, avIio 
loyally submit tliemselves to their betters, 
and refrain from meddling in matters that 
are too high for them. And now, where 
is justice ? In what class is that embodied 
specially ?’ 

‘ In the judges and the magistrates and 
the x)olicem.en, ’ saici Lady Ambrose. 

‘ No, ’ said Laurence ; ‘ it is jDeculiar to 
no class. It resides in all. It is that 
virtue which enables the others to exist 
and to continue. ’ 

‘But surely,’ said Lady Ambrose, ‘all 
that is not what we mean by justice now ?’ 

‘ Certainly not, ’ said Laurence ; ‘ and 
my book was designed to investigate what 
justice is, as it exists now. I, like Plato, 
constructed a state, making it, however, a 
real rather than an ideal picture. But 
when I had done this, I could find no 
earnest thinking class to rej)resent wis- 
dom ; no class of practical jroliticians that 
would carry out even the little wisdom 
they knew, and so rej^resent courage ; and 
certainly no commercial or industrial class 
that would refrain for a single day from 
meddling in matters that were too hig’i 
for them, and so rej^resent temperance'. 
So I analysed life in a somewhat different 
way. I divided it into happiness, misery, 
and justice. I then at once discovered 
that the rich represented all the haj^piness 
of which we are now cai3able, and the poor 
all the misery ; and that justice was that 


48 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


Avliicli set this state of things going and 
enabled it to contiime. ’ 

‘Ah, Laurence,’ exclaimed Mr. Herbert, 
clapping his hands gently in sad applause, 
‘ I like that. I wish you had worked out 
this idea more fully. ’ 

‘Suppose,’ exclaimed Xieslie, ‘that we 
try this afternoon to construct a Utojjia 
ourselves. Let us embody our notions of 
life as it ought to be in a new Republic.’ 

‘ Well, ’ said Lady Ambrose, ‘ I am not 
a Conservative ; I don’t object. I’m sure 
at any rate that there is much Ave could all 
of us alter, if Ave only had our oavii Avay. ’ 

‘Much,’ said Lady Grace, Avith seA^ere 
briskness. 

‘ Much, ’ said Miss IMerton, Avith a soft, 
half-serious smile. 

‘ Much, ’ said Lord Allen, catching eag- 
erly at the idea. 

‘ Well, then, ’ said Laurence, ‘ let us all 
do our best to give those airy somethings, 
our asj)irationSj a local habitation and a 
name< ’ 

The majority of the company took very 
kindly to the i3roj)osal. Lady Grace Avas 
especially i^leased, as it seemed to pro- 
vide at once a As hole afternoon’s occupa- 
tion for the party ; and it Avas arranged 
accordingly that as soon as luncheon Avas 
over they should adjourn for castle-build- 
ing to a shady spot in the garden. 


CHAPTER III. 

Guided by Lady Grace, the guests grad- 
ually coiiA^erged after luncheon toAvards 
the appointed spot, straggling thither by 
various Avays, and in desultory groups ; 
l)assing doAAUi broad flights of steps flanked 
by gods and goddesses, and along straight 
terraces set Avith Abases and Irish yeAvs ; 
while busts of orators, poets, and X)hil- 
osoiDliers, Avith Latin inscri23tions, glim- 
mered to right and left of them in groves 
of laurels ; and scaly Tritons, dap^iled 


’ Avith green lichens, sjiouted up Avater in 
j the middle of gleaming basins. Every- 
thing Avas to-day looking at its loveliest. 
There Avas an unusual freshness in the 
Avarm summer air. Beyond the green 
shrubs the sea shone bright and blue ; 
and through the shrubs the sea-breeze 
moved and Avhispered. 

Laurence strolled slowly on behind Avith 
Miss Merton, choosing a path Avhich none 
of the others had taken. 

‘ How delicious this is !’ said Miss Mer- 
ton, lifting her hat to enjoy the breeze 
upon her forehead. ‘ Nobody could be in 
bad siDirits in a place like this. There is 
something so fresh and living everyAvhere, 
and even Avhen Ave lose sight of the sea Ave 
still hear it. ’ 

‘ Yj^s, ’ said Laurence. ‘ I believe these 
gardens are like Keat’s island. There is 
no recess in them, 

Not haunted by the murmurous sound of 
waves.’ 

‘ And hoAV jierfectly everything is kept ! 
What gardeners you must have !’ said 
Miss Merton, as they turned up a narroAv 
Avinding walk, thickly set on either side 
Avith carefiilly -trimmed laurels. 

The whole j^lace Avas, indeed, as Miss 
Merton said, kejit iierfectly. Not a Aveed’ 
Avas on the grey gravel ; not a single twig 
called for pruning. Every vase they pass- 
ed Avas full of the most delicious fioAvers. 
Overhead the branches of limes and of 
acacia-trees murmured gaily. Everything 
seemed to be free from care, and to be 
laughing, light of heart, in the bright 
Aveather. 

‘I am taking you this Avay,’ said Lau- 
rence, ‘ because I Avant to shoAV you Avhat 
I think may perhaps interest you. ’ 

As he spoke these w'ords, a sudden bend 
in the Avalk brought them face to face Avith 
something that gave Miss Merton a sud- 
den sensation of sui'pi’ise* If was a small 
classical ijortico built in a style of the 
most severe simplicity, through Avhich by 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


49 


an iron gate one passed into an open space 
beyond. What surprised Miss Merton on 
seeing this was the singular sense of deso- 
lation and dreariness that seemed all at 
once to come over her. The iron gates 
before her were a mass of rust ; the portico 
which had once been white, was w'eather- 
stained into a dismal grey ; the stone, too, 
it was built of was scaling off in almost 
every j)lace, and the fragments lay un- 
heeded as they had fallen upon the ground. 
Here, amongst everything that spoke of 
the utmost care, was one object that sj^oke 
of entire forgetfulness and neglect. They 
approached in silence, and Miss Merton 
looked in through the bars of the rusty 
gate. The scene that met her eyes w^as 
one of greater desolation still. It was a 
circular plot of ground, fenced round by 
a low stone wall that was surmounted by 
spiked railings. It looked as though it 
might have been once a flower garden, but 
it was now a wilderness. Outside its 
boundary, rose the rare and beautiful 
trees of the happy tended shrubberies. 
Inside were nettles, brambles, and long 
weedy grass. Nothing else was visible in 
this melancholy enclosure but throe cy- 
presses, apparently of various ages, the 
two smaller planted near together, the 
third, and by far the largest, standing 
apart by itself. 

Miss Merton was quite at a loss what to 
make of the strange spot ; and, as Lau- 
rence was feeling in his pocket for the 
key, she asked him if it had anything to 
do with breeding pheasants. 

‘ Do you see what is written above the 
gate ?’ said Laurence, as he pointed to a 
dim inscription whose letters still retained 
a glimmer of fading gold ; ‘ can you read 
it ? 

Neque harum, quas colis, arborum 
Te, praeter invisam cupressum, 

Ulla brevem dominum sequetur. 

“ Of all these trees wdiich you love so, the 
hated cypress only shall follow its master, 
and be faithful to him in his narrow^ 

4 


house.” But come — let us go inside, if 
you are not afraid of the long grass.’ 

They passed through the gate, w^hich 
gave a low w'ail upon its hinges, and Miss 
Merton followed Laurence, knee- deep in 
grass and nettles, to the smallest of 
the three cypress-trees. There Laurence 
paused. At the foot of the tree Miss Mer- 
ton saw a flat slab of marble, with some- 
thing written upon it ; and for the first 
time she felt certain that she must be in a 
place of graves. 

‘This,’ said Laurence, pointing to the 
little cypress, ‘ was planted only five years 
ago, ten days before the poor old man 
died who now sleeps under it. This is 
my uncle’s grave. Do you see the in- 
scription ? 

Omnis moriar, nullaque pars mei 
Vitabit Libitinam. 

“I shall wholly die, and there is no part of 
me that will escape the Venus of death.” 
That, and that alone, he chose to have 
written over him. ’ 

Laurence spoke with some feeling, but 
Miss Merton w^as so much surprised that 
she hardly knew wLat response to make. 

‘ And does nobody take any care of this 
place ?’ at last she said. 

‘ No,’ said Laurence. ‘By his own last 
orders, nobody. But come — you must 
look at this too.’ And he motioned her 
towards the neighbouring cypress. 

At the foot of this, almost hidden by the 
long grass, Miss Merton saw something 
that surprised her still more strangely. 
It w^as the statue of a woman half reclining 
in a languid attitude on a block of hewn 
marble. The figure was full and beauti- 
ful, and the features of the face were 
singularly fine ; but there was something 
in the general effect that struck one at the 
first moment, as not pleasing. What 
slight drapery there was, was disposed 
meretriciously over the rounded limbs ; 
on the arms were heavy bracelets ; one of 
the hands held a half-inverted wine-cup. 


60 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


and the other was laid negligently on a 
heap of coins. But what jarred most upon 
the feelings was the face, with its perfect 
features. For a cold sneer was fixed upon 
the full mouth and the fine nostrils ; and 
the eyes, with a leer of petulant sensuality, 
seemed to be fixed for ever upon the fiat 
neighbouring gravestone. 

‘ This cypress, ’ said Laurence, ‘ is much 
older than the other. It was planted 
twenty years ago ; and twenty years ago 
the original of that statue w’as laid beneath 
it. She was one of those many nameless 
ladies — for, as you know, he completely 
exiled himself from society all the latter 
part of his life — who from time to time 
shared his fortunes at the house here. 
She was, too, by far the loveliest. She 
was at the same time the hardest, the most 
selfish, the most mercenary as well. And 
he knew it too. In spite of the distraction 
he found in her companionship, he was 
never for a moment deceived about her. 
At last, having made a fortune out of him, 
she was thinking of leaving him. But one 
day, suddenly, she caught a chill and died. 
She died here, and here she was buried. 
That statue, as you may imagine, is his 
design, not hers. The attitude, the dra- 
pery, the wine-cup held in one hand, and 
the money in the other, are according to 
his express direction ; and by his direction 
too, that face, with its lovely features, 
leers and sneers at him for ever, as he rests 
in his neglected grave. See, too, there is 
the epitaph which he chose for her : — 

Lusisti satis, edisti satis, atque bibisti ; 

Tempus abire tibi est. 

‘‘You have wantoned enough with me — 
you have eaten enough of my substance — 
you have drunk enough of my chami^agne; 
Tis high time for you to go.” And now,’ 
said Laurence, ‘ let us come to the third 
tree, and you shall see w'hat is over- 
shadowed by it.’ 

They passed across the enclosure to the 
largest of the three cypresses, and at the 


I foot of that. Miss Merton discovered a 
third grave-stone, also with a poetical 
inscription. ‘That,’ said Laurence, ‘you 
can read without help of mine. ’ 

Miss Merton looked ; and the lines were 
not new to her : — 

A slumber did my spirit seal, 

I knew no mortal fears, 

She seemed a thing that could not feel 
The touch of earthly years. 

She knows no motion now, nor force. 

She neither feels nor sees. 

Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course 
With rocks, and stones, and trees. 

‘Here,’ said Laurence, ‘is the oldest 
grave of all. Its date is that of the tree 
that stands beside it, and that was planted 
forty years ago. Under that stone lies the 
only woman — except myself, almost the 
only thing — that the old man ever really 
loved. This was in his young days. He 
was only thirty when she died ; and her 
death was the great turning-point of his 
life. She lived with him for two years, in 
a little cottage that stood on the very spot 
where he afterwards built the villa. She 
has no name, you see, on the grave-stone, 
and I had best not give her any. She was 
some one’s wife, but not his. That is her 
story. I have her miniature somewhere, 
which one day I should like to show 
you. It is a lovely dark face, with liquid, 
siDiritual eyes, and under it are written 
two lines of Byron’s, which might have 
been comi 30 sed for her : — 

She walks in beauty like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies. 

Well, there she lies now ; and the old 
man’s youth lies buried with her. It was 
her death that made him a philosopher. 
He built this great place here, and laid 
out these gardens half to kill his grief for 
her, and half to keep alive her memory ; 
and here, as you see, he buried her. She 
gave up all that was best in her for the 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


51 


love of him. He gave uj) all that was best 
in him for the loss of her. ’ 

‘And is this place left quite uncared 
for ?’ said Miss Merton, looking around 
her. 

‘ It is left, ’ said Laurence, ‘ as he wished 
it should be. It was one of his most 
special orders that, when he was dead and 
buried, no further care of any kind should 
l)e spent on it. The grass and weeds were 
to be left to grow wild in it, the rails to 
rust, the portico to decay and crumble. 
“ Do you think,” he said to me, “ that I 
know so little of life as to flatter myself 
that any single creature Avill regret me 
when I am gone, or even waste a thought 
upon me ? I do not choose, as Christians 
do, to rest for ever under a lie ; for their 
tombs are lying monuments that they are 
remembered ; mine shall be a true one, 
that I am forgotten. Yes,” he said, “it 
makes me laugh to think of myself — me, 
who have built this house and planted 
these gardens which others will enjoy — 
rotting in the midst of it all, under thorns 
and brambles, in a little dismal wilder- 
ness. And then i)erhaps, Otho,” he would 
say to me, “ some of your friends who will 
walk about these gardens in a year or 
two — Christians, no doubt, wuth the devil 
knows wliat of fine sentiments about faith 
and immortality — will look in through the 
bars of the gate, and be shocked at that 
honest wilderness, that unconcealed neg- 
lect, w^hich is the only real portion of 
those that have been.” But during his 
last illness he softened just a little, and 
admitted that I, he did believe, cared for 
him, and might, when he w^as dead, every 
now and then think of him. “And so,” 
he said, ‘^if you like to do it, come every 
now and then, and scrape the moss from 
my inscription, and from the two others. 
But that is all I will have you do — that, 
and nothing more. That will express all 
that it is possible that you should feel for 
me.” I promised him to do no more than 
that, and that I do. Poor old man !’ 


Laurence went on meditatively, as they 
passed out of the gates, and w'ere again 
in the bright trim garden. ‘ He thought 
that he belonged to times before his own ; 
but I think that in reality he belonged to 
times after them. If he was Roman at 
all, as he ahvays fancied himself, he w'as 
Roman only in that sombre ennui that 
through all his later years opi^ressed him ; 
and which seems to me to be now settling 
down upon the world — an ennui that al- 
ways kept him seeking for jfieasures, and 
that turned the pleasures into ashes as 
soon as he possessed them. His pleasures 
were high and low ; but the higher made 
him despise the lower ; and the lower he 
sought simj^ly that he might drown the 
higher. Tw o things only during his last 
years never 23alled upon him : one was, 
saying a shaiqD thing neatly ; the other, 
detecting some new weakness in human 
nature. In this he seemed really to revel. 
On the littleness and the pretences of 
men, especially when they turned out 
failures, he seemed to look with a passion- 
ate contemptuous fondness, like a wdcked 
prince on a peasant-girl. See — here w^as 
his summer study — this stone pavilion. 
Let us go in for a moment, and I will 
show it to you.’ 

They w'ere in front of a small quasi- 
classical building of wdiite marble, em- 
bowered behind in arbutus and in myrtles, 
and commanding from its large windows 
a full view of the sea. Laurence unlocked 
the door, and he and Miss Merton en- 
tered. 

Inside there w^as a faint musty smell, 
and a general sense that the i3lace had 
been long disused. The walls were com- 
pletely lined with books in sj)lendid bind- 
ings, wdiose gilded backs glimmered 
temptingly through the network of the 
bookcase doors. In the centre stood a 
table, covered with a cloth of faded crim- 
son velvet ; nothing on it but a tarnished 
ormolu inkstand, in the shape of a Ro- 
man temple, across the columns of which 


52 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


spiders had woven dusty webs. Placed 
sti&j before the table stood a gilded arm- 
chair, with cushions of crimson damask, 
and under it a foot-stool to match, wliich 
had been worn quite bare by the old 
philosopher’s feet. 

‘Here,’ said Laurence, ‘he would sit 
day after day amongst his books, drawing, 
or reading, or writing, or looking out at 
his flowers or at the sea. Look ! these two 
folios, bound in red morocco, are a collec- 
tion of his verses, letters, essays, and so 
on, that he had had privately printed. 
They are not all, I’m afraid, quite fit to 
read. But this first volume is all right. 
I should like to take it out and show it to 
you by-and-by. But come — I have noth- 
ing more to exhibit now. We had better 
join the others. They will not be far off,’ 
he said, as they left the i^avilion ; ‘ indeed, 
I think I can hear them talking. ’ 

In another moment they had jDassed 
through an arch of evergreens, and found 
themselves on the spot where nearly all 
the rest of the party had assembled, dis- 
posed in an easy group upon the grass. 
The iilace was an amphitheatre of velvet 
turf, set round with laurels and all kinds 
of shrubs ; in the arena of which — if one 
may so sj^eak — a little fountain splashed 
cool and restless in a porphyry basin. 
Overhead, the blue summer sky was 
screened by the whispering shade of tall 
trees ; and above the dark laurel-leaves, 
the fresh sea was seen in the distance, an 
azure haze full of sparklings. The whole 
scene, as Miss Merton and Laurence, with 
his gorgeous folio under his arm, came 
upon it, was curiously i>icturesque. The 
various dresses made against the green 
turf a soft medley of colours. The ladies 
were in white and black and jDale yellow, 
green and crimson and dove-colour. All 
the men, except Mr. Luke, were in shoot- 
ing coats ; and Mr. Saunders, who wore 
knickerbockers, had even pink stockings. 
And here, as the lights and shades flick- 
ered over them, and the gentle air breathed 


upon them, they seemed altogether like a 
party from which an imaginative onlooker 
might have exjDected a new Decameron. ^ 

Already, under Lady Grace’s vigorous 
guidance, a certain amount of talk had 
begun di^rojyos of the new Bepublic ; all 
the ladies, with the exception of Mrs. 
Sinclair, having fallen to discussing the 
true iDosition of women, or rather of wo- 
man, and their opinions on this point be- 
ing a little various. But besides this, the 
post had arrived ; and that too had created 
some excitement. Lady Ambrose in par- 
ticular had become delightfully radiant, 
on receiving a large envelope that was stiff 
as she handled it ; and which she saw con- 
tained, as she just peeped into it, a card, 
on the toj) of which was printed, ‘ To have 
the honow' to meet — .’ She had, too, just 
extracted from Lord Allen a promise to 
come and stay with her, next autumn, in 
the country ; and her measure of good 
spirits was quite full. 

‘Now, Mr. Laurence,’ she exclaimed, 
dangling her hat in her hand, ‘ do come 
and put a stop to this. You see what a 
woman’s parliament would be if we ever 
have one, which my husband says is not 
at all imi^ossible. Here is one of us who 
thinks that everything will go well if wo- 
men can only learn to paint flowers on 
white dessert plates, and get fifteen shil- 
lings apiece for them.’ 

‘ And I,’ said Lady Grace, smiling good- 
naturedly, ‘ was just saying that they all 
ought to be taught logic. ’ 

‘Perfectly true,’ exclaimed Mr. Saun- 
ders, putting up his si:>ectacles to see who 
had spoken. 

‘ And Miss Merton, ’ said Lady Ambrose 
‘ thinks that we should all be taught to 
walk the hospitals, or be sick-nurses. ’ 

‘ I should not so much mind that, ’ said 
Mrs. Sinclair, ‘in war time, if one had 
anyone figliting in whose life one really 
took an interest. I once thought, Mr. 
Leslie, that tliat might l)e my mission, 
perhaps. ’ 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


53 


‘ But,’ said Lady Ambrose, ‘ liow are we 
to build a castle in the air together, if we 
are all at cross purposes like this ?’ 

There did indeed seem little prospect of 
their getting to work at all ; until Leslie 
exclaimed at last that he thought he had 
found a way. 

‘See,’ said Mrs. Sinclair, ‘I told you a 
little while ago you would be wanted to 
talk cleverly. And now, Mr. Leslie, don’t 
you think you would be more comfortable 
if you sat a little farther off? or Lady 
Grace, of whom I am already afraid, will 
begin to think we’re flirting. ’ 

‘Well,’ said Leslie, ‘ in spite of all our 
differences, I think I see a way in which 
we shall all be able to set to work to- 
gether. We want to imagine a state that 
shall be as nearly x)erfect as we can make 
it. Well and good. Noav, we shall all 
admit, I suppose, that in a perfect state 
all the parts will be perfect, and each part 
will imply and involve all the others. 
Given one bone, we shall be able to con- 
struct the entire animal. Let us then take 
one part, and imagine that first. Let us 
take the highest class in our state, and see 
what we think that ought to be, looking- 
on it in the first place not as a corporate 
body of superiors, but as an assembly of 
equals. Let us, I mean, to put it in other 
Avords, begin with seeing what we really 
wish society to be — Avhat we really think 
that the highest and most refined life con- 
sists in, that is possible for the most fa- 
voured classes ; and then let us see after- 
Avards Avhat is implied in this. ’ 

Leslie’s proposal Avas Avelcomed eagerly 
by everyone. 

‘ Well,’ said Lady Ambrose, ‘ and so Ave 
are each of us to say, are Ave, what we 
think is the essence of good society ? 
Come then, Avho knoAvs ?’ 

‘Art,’ murmured Mr. Rose. 

‘Reason,’ said Mr. Saunders. 

‘ UiiAvorldliness, based on knoAV ledge of 
the Avorld,’ said Miss Merton. 

‘Wait a moment,’ said Laurence, ‘Ave 


are going too fast. This is not Avhat Mr. 
Leslie means. ’ 

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Saunders. ‘Let us 
get rid of Avhat is eAul before Ave introduce 
Avhat is good. I should begin by getting 
rid of every belief that is not based upon 
reason, and every sentiment Avhose ex- 
istence cannot be accounted for. ’ 

‘ Here we are, ’ said Lady Ambrose, ‘ all 
over the place. Noav if I might be al- 
loAved to say Avhat I thought Avas the es- 
sence of good society, I should say that a 
great part of it, at least, Avas the absence 
of dull and vulgar people. ’ 

‘ Excellent !’ exclaimed Mr. Luke, ‘ and 
a cai3ital exclusion with which to begin 
our neAv Republic. ’ 


BOOK III. 

CHAPTER I. 

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Luke still more sol- 
emnly, ‘if Ave only folloAV this out — this 
idea of the exclusion from our society of 
all vulgar and extraneous elements, we 
shall find Ave liaA^e done a great deal more 
than Ave may at first think. We shall have 
at once a free, and liberal, and untainted 
social and intellectual atmosphere, in 
Avhich our thoughts, and feelings, and re- 
finements, and ways of living, may devel- 
ope themselves to the utmost, unimpeded. 
Lady Ambrose has certainly begun with 
hitting the right nail on the head. ’ 

Could Lady Ambrose have been told, 
Avhen she left London the afternoon be- 
fore, that in another tAventy-four hours 
she would be taking the lead in the con- 
struction of a Utopia, or ideal state of so- 
ciety, suggested by the Avritings of a Greek 
philosopher, she Avould have been utterly 
at a loss to know what the prophecy 
meant ; and had she known what it meant, 
she Avould certainly not have believed it. 


54 


thp: new republic. 


Indeed, as it was, she conld hardly imag- ' 
ine that Mr. Luke was serious, and that ! 
he was not laughing at her ; so she said 
quickly and in a tone of self-defence— 

“Of course I know that there must be 
something more than the mere exclusion 
of vulgar people, Mr. Luke. We miist 

have religion, and all that, and ’ 

‘ Ah !’ exclaimed Mr. Luke, interrupting 
her with a grand wave of the hand ; ‘ my 
dear Lady Ambrose, let us leave all that 
till by-and-by. Let us be content to be- 
gin with simx)ler matters first. ’ 

‘ Let us begin with the flowers of life,’ 
said Leslie, ‘and when w^e have chosen 
these, let us trace them back to their 
roots. ’ 

‘ I quite think,’ said Miss Merton, ‘ that 
in a really good society — one that w^as per- 
fectly good even in the sux)erficial sense of 
the w^ord — w^e should find, if w^e only had 
eyes enough, religion lurking somewdiere, 
and everything else w^e want. ’ 

‘And so that’s your view, my dear, is 
it ?’ said Lady Ambrose. ‘ Oh, then, I 
suppose since you, a Roman Catholic, 
think so, I may also. ’ 

‘Surely, too,’ said Miss Merton, ‘w^e 
must all know that nothing can be so bad, 
either for the x^ushers or the pushed, as 
the struggle of x^eox3le to get into what 
they think is good society, not in the 
least because they care to be there, but 
merely because they care to be known to 
be fhere.’ 

Lady Ambrose, who x^erhaps felt uncon- 
sciously some small jDricks of conscience 
here, again looked doubtful, and said, 

‘ Still, if we really w^ant to make a x^erfect 
state, this does not seem a very serious 
thing to begin w'ith.’ 

‘Listen,’ exclaimed Laurence; ‘let me 
read you something I have here — some- 
thing of my uncle’s, which I have just 
thought of. It is a short adax^tation of 
Aristotle’s Ethics. ’ 

Lady Ambrose started. Hearing two 
w'ords, the one as long as Aristotky and 


the other as unfamiliar as Ethics^ she be- 
gan to think that she had made the con- 
versation serious wuth a vengeance. In- 
deed, the wdiole w^ell as herself, 

show ed some signs of suiqDrise. 

‘ It is very short, ’ said Laurence, ‘ and 
I wdll only read a page or tw'o. It is 
called “A system of Ethics, adapted from 
Aristotle, for the use of the English Na- 
tion.” It w’as suggested to him — ’ (and 
this bewildered Lady Ambrose still more, 
though at the same time it gave her some 
gleam of hope), ‘ by a very rich vulgar 
family, wdio bought a x^lace near here, and 
who much annoyed and amazed him by 
the great court they paid to him. This is 
the first chax:)ter ; it treats of “ The Sum- 
mum Bonum, or The Moral End of Ac- 
tion.''" Listen — 

‘ Ethics heing the art and science of human 
action, as directed towards the chief good of 
life — that highest and final end, to which, if 
we think a little, we shall see all otho' ends 
are suhordinate ; it is evident that our first 
task must he, as our master Aristotle well 
says, to form a char conception of what this 
end, the chief good, is. 

‘ Now on this point Aristotle would seem to 
err. For he, following the common opinion 
of men, affirms the chief good to be hajpi- 
ness, holding the only question to he, in what 
does true happiness lie ? And if he had been 
philosophising for savages, he would indeed, 
have been in the rigid. But because savages 
and men in a state of nature have all one end 
of action, which is Inppiness, it by no means 
folio t os that the same is true, of civilised na- 
tions, and that these may not have ends that 
are far highei\ It is indeed evident that 
they have. And not this only, but that of 
such ends there is a vo'y great variety. To 
describe and numbei' these with anything like 
absolute accuracy is neither required nm' ad- 
mitted by the nature of the subject. But we 
shall be sifficiently near the truth if we say 
that there is a separate and characteristic 
chief good for each civilised nation — ( quot 
gentes tot summa bona) — and that it is by 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


55 


this in each case that the naticmal character 
is determined. A glance at the continent of 
Europe will at once illustrate this, and sug- 
gest examples to iis of these national chief 
goods. We shall see the Germans, for in- 
stance, following what is called Thought to 
its inmost recesses, the French what is called 
Life. We shall find accordingly, that the 
chief good of the former nation, which is per- 
haps the highest of all, is the knowledge of 
die unknowable; whilst that of the latter, 
which is next to it in dignity, is the practice 
of the unmentionable. And so on with all the 
other nations; each will be found to have 
its separate chief good ; and none of these 
to have the least connection with happiness. 
For us, however, loho ar^ English, and writ- 
ing for English readers, it will be enough to 
concern ourselves simply with the chief good 
of the English. 

‘ We shall discover this, in the same way 
as toe did that of the French and Gei'mans, 
in an examination of our own special nation- 
al characteristic. First, however, we must 
be clear what this choractei'istic is ; and hei'e 
it will be well to take our neighbours^ opinions 
of us as well as our own. If we inqidre then 
in what light toe present ourselves to the other 
European nations, we shall find that just as 
the Germans are known mairdy as a pro- 
found nation, and the French as a prurient 
nation, so are we, in like manner, now 
known as a vidgar nation. And as this 
view of us exactly tallies with our own, it 
appears evident that the special national 
charactefi'istic of the English is vulgarity, and 
that the chief good of the English is the final 
end thai is aimed at by the English vulgar 
classes. 

‘ This we affirm to be social distinction, to 
their admiration and pursuit of udiicli is due 
that cardinal moral quality which they call 
woiddliness in themselves, and snobbishness 
in their friends and enemies. And if any 
object that to a great part of the. nation social 
distinction in its true sense is a thing un- 
known, and that to another* part it is a thing 
that comes without being struggled for, and 


so in neither case can be the end of moral 
action, xce shall answer them that to object 
this, is much the same as to argue that a 
peach-tree does not bear peaches because none 
are to be seen growing out of the roots; or 
that there is no meaning in the Athanasian 
Creed because none is attached to it by the 
only people xrho use it ; w' that there is no 
meaning in the dogma of the Popds infalli- 
bility because its only possible meaning is 
repudiated by all those who defend it. For 
nothing will be found unless we seek it in its 
light place. And for the ethics of a nation 
we must look only in that part of the nation 
which is their proper sphere; and that part 

is, as we have already shown, the vulgar 
part. And should any still imagine that if 
we thus limit the scope of our observation, we 
shall not be able to treat the subject exhaust- 
ively, we shall remind him that the vidgar 
classes, though not yet co-extensive with the 
nation, are still rapidly becoming so, vul- 
garity ascending and descending with equal 
certainty ; since on the one hand it ruins all 
society into which it contrives to entefi' ; whilst 
it thrives itself, on the other hand, on all 
society that contrives to enter into it. To it 
therefore our whole study may be confined. 
Nor lastly (for it is well to anticipate every 
possible objection), is there any need that 
even thus we shoidd study those classes that 
naturally possess social distinction, that we 
may so learn in what its real essence con- 
sists ; since, if we do but observe facts, we 
shall see that ignorance of the whole inner 
nature of good society is the chief charac- 
teristic of those xcho with most single-heart- 
edness direct their lines towards getting into 

it. It will be enough then, without any fur- 
ther explanation, to lay it down that social 
distinction is the chief good, and the end of 
all moral action; nor can the Aristotelians 
say that this is in reality a mediate end, and 
sought for only because it leads to happiness ; 
since so far are men from seeking social dis- 
tinction for the sake of happiness, thai they 
are p&tpetually renouncing happiness for the 
sake of social distinction. ^ 


56 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


‘ Capital, Mr. Laurence !’ exclaimed La- 
dy Ambrose, breaking into a low silvery 
laugh, as soon as Laurence had ended. 

‘ And how true that is about those peoj^le 
w'ho really ruin the society into which 
they contrive to push themselves !’ 

Lord Allen, who caught Miss Merton’s 
eye at this moment, gave a very faint 
smile. 

‘ So you see, ’ said Laurence, ‘ that you 
were quite right, Lady Ambrose, by in- 
stinctively beginning -with exclusion. ’ 

‘Still,’ said Allen, ‘I’m afraid that all 
this is rather selfish. These people who 
want to be so smart, are, I dare say, not 
much the worse because of it. Indeed, 
myself, I rather like a good snob now and 
then.’ 

‘Well,’ said Laurence, ‘let me read a 
few more paragraphs, and you will see. 

‘ Such being the end, ’ he goes on, ‘ of all 
moral acticni, virtue or morality is that state 
of mind which deswes this end; and virtuous 
or moral acts are those which help us on 
towards it, provided only that they are done 
with purpose. For acts done not with pur- 
pose, but by chance, are not to be held moral. 
Now the nature of purpose is well explained 
by Aristotle, when he says that its object is all 
such voluntary action as is the result of de- 
liberalion. And xchat then is the object of 
deliberation ? Let us consider that : for 
men, it is evident, do not deliberate about 
all matters alike; since in addition to their 
continually not deliberating in cases when 
they ouglii, the^'e are many matters about 
which deliberation is out of the question . — 
Thus no one deliberates about what is in its 
nature immutable, as how to alter vxdgarity 
of a people's member of Parliament ; nor 
about necessary things, as how to alleviate the 
misery of the starving poor ; nor about things 
of chance, as how to prevent the dissemination 
of cholefi'a ; nor, again, about remote things 
which do not conceryi us, as, to use a former 
instance, how to alleviate the misery of the 
starving poor; nor does anyone delibex'ate 
about impossible things, as how to check the 


poisonous aduUei'ation of food; nor about 
things that are past and lost, as how to do 
anything for the glcn'y of England; nor, 
lastly, do we deliberate about things xce do 
not care about, as how to get that lost glory 
back again. Deliberation, then, only takes 
place about such matters as our own agency 
can effect, and which we wish it should effect. 
Virtue, therefore, being thus based on de- 
liber alion, is manifestly not one of those 
things that come to us by nature xvheiher we 
10 ill or no ; but it is acquired by habit. The 
genus of moral virtue is a habit. But ivhat 
special sort of habit ? and how does it differ 
frcnn all other habits? Let us consider 
this. 

‘ We must remembe)', first, that it is the 
office of evex'y virtue to perfect that of udiich 
it is the virtue. Thus it is the virtue of a 
modern London hoxise to be as badly built as 
possible and not be seen to be so ; it is the 
virtue of an insured ship not to appear un- 
seaworthy before she does so to the crew as 
she is foundering ; and it is the virtue of 
butche)''s meat, groceries and so forth, not to 
appear unfit for human consumpticm. In 
the same way moral virtue, or the virtue of a 
man, is that which makes him appear to be 
one thing to the world, whilst in reality he is 
another. Such being the case, it is plain 
that in trying to be virtuous, we may, as in 
most other things, do too much, or too little; 
and what is right will be a mean lying be- 
tween these two extremes. Now of meaxis 
there are two kinds, the absolute and the rela- 
tive, either of which tve can find in anything 
that is continuous ; the form&)', as when xce 
take the bisecting point in a straight line, 
which is for all men one and the same, the 
latter, as when we take the mean point or 
thing with reference to ourselves, in which 
case it will differ with our different require- 
ments. Thus, if three be too small a num- 
ber, and seventy-five too great, simply as an 
arithmetical problem, we take thirty-nine to 
be the mean, which exceeds three by as much 
as it is exceeded by seventy-five ; but with 
reference to ourselves we cannot so decide. 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


57 


For thirty-nine articles of religion may be 
too few for the present Archbishop of West- 
minster, and three may be too many for the 
Dean. Or again between 1007 and 207, 
the mean with regard to the matter itself 
would be 607, but with regard to ourselves, 
not so. For 607 would be too little to offer to 
a cook, and loo much to offer to a curate. 
So in like manner, that equality which con-- 
stitictes moral virtue is not the absolute, but 
the relative mean. Moral virtue, then, we 
shall define to be a certain state, or habit of 
purpose, conforming in action to the relative 
mean, cmd adjusted to that mean as the 
worldly or snobbish man wauld adjust it. 
At this point we shall pause a moment to 
make a very slight change in the accepted 
terminology of the subject. We have hitherto 
spoken of the virtue of the vulgar classes as 
being a mean. We consider, however, that 
our language will be less ambiguous, if we 
toke wioiher form of the same word, and 
agree to call it a meanness. Moral virtue, 
then, is a meanness lying between two vices, 
its extremes; the one vice being that of ex- 
cess, the other that of defect. Thus it is 
possible for a habit of mind to be so un- 
restrained and vehement, that the acts it 
produces at once beWay their motives and 
obtrude them on the observer; it is qjossible 
for it, also, on the other hand, to be so weak 
and nerveless as never to produce any acts 
at all. For instance, the habit of thought in 
a clergyman may be so strong and unre- 
strained as to lead him to speak his whole 
conclusions out, and so get deprived of his 
living ; or on the other hand it may be so 
weak and undeveloped, that he comes to no 
conclusions at all, and so dies in a curacy ; 
the meanness betweeri these two e,vt)'emes be- 
ing what is called vagueness, or the absence 
of any defined opinions, which is a great 
merit, and leads, in the Established Church, 
to high preferment. So also with habits of 
action, the general name given to the true 
meanness is worldliness, whereof the excess 
is snobbishiiess, and the defect independence : 
worldliness being in its essence the former of 


these, and in its aspect the latter. Whence 
it follows that we may yet further generally 
define the moral meanness, as that which is 
inwardly one extreme, and which is outward- 
ly the other. ’ 

‘Now,’ said Laurence, ‘ though I don’t 
suppose the writer of this really cared 
two straws whether the majority of pebi)le 
were mean and vulgar or no, there is a 
great deal of truth in what he says : and 
I think in our ideally good society one of 
the first things we want is that it shall be 
unmixed and genuine ; I mean, all its 
members must be of it, as well as in it. 
They must give it its prestige. We must 
have none that merely get their prestige 
from it.’ 

‘Well,’ said Allen, ‘no doubt this ex- 
clusion is better, if it could be only man- 
aged. ’ 

‘ Don’t let us think yet, ’ said Laurence, 
‘ about how' to manage it. Let us see what 
we want first, and see what it costs after- 
wards. ’ 

‘I certainly believe,’ said Miss Merton, 
‘ that what I consider the extremely bad 
manners of a great many fine ladies would 
all go, if a stop were put to this jostling 
and scrambling that goes on about them, 
as Mr. Laurence proposes. ’ 

‘ See, ’ said Laurence, ‘ here is one good 
fruit of exclusion at once — the redemj)tion 
of our manners ; and a most imi^ortant 
fruit too, I think ; for I hope Ave all start 
with the understanding that our society, 
ideally good as it is, is above non^of those 
outward graces and refinements of behav- 
iour and Avays of liAung that gi\"e us such 
pleasure noAV, Avhen Ave find them. ’ 

‘ And manner too, Mr. Laurence, ’ broke 
in Lady Ambrose, ‘as Avell as manners. — 
Think what a charm there is in a really 
charming manner. ’ 

‘ There is indeed, ’ exclaimed Mr. Stock- 
ton. ‘ The dear Duchess of , for in- 

stance — why, there’s a fascination even in 
the way in Avhich she says a good morn- 
ing.’ 


58 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


‘All yes,’ said Lady Ambrose. ‘Now, 
there’s what I call a redlly perfect manner 
for you. ’ 

‘ Very well,’ said Laurence, ‘and wdiat- 
eyer is a really perfect manner, in our 
ideal society we must all haye it.’ 

‘ I must confess, ’ said Allen, ‘ that I get 
yery sick sometimes of our conyentional 
society manners ; and I often long to have 
a good genuine savage to talk to. ’ 

‘That,’ said Laurence, - ‘ is because of 
all the social shams that w^e have just 
agreed to get rid of. xA.nd to call the 
manner of society conventional, conveys 
no greater blame than if you w'ere to call 
language conventional. For manner is but 
a second language, of which the best so- 
ciety speaks the purest dialect — the Attic, 
in fact. And as with language, so with 
manner, the more uniformity there is in it 
in some ways, the nicer shades of indi- 
viduality shall we be able to exi)ress by it 
in others.’ 

‘ Well,’ said Allen, shortly, ‘ perhaps it 
is so. You are very likely right.’ 

‘ And in manner, ’ said Laurence, ‘ I in- 
clude tone too — that special and indescrib- 
able way of looking at things, and speak- 
ing of things, which characterises good 
society, and distinguishes it from the rest 
of the ^vorld so completely, and yet by 
marks so subtle that they w'ould utterly 
escape the notice of those who don’t know 
their meaning — that little extra stroke of 
polishing that brings to light such count- 
less new delicate veins in the marble of 
life — the little extra stroke of the brush 
that puts a new refinement, and self-i)os- 
session, into the face. As Browming says 
of a very different subject — 

Oh, the little more, and how much it is. 
And the little less, and what worlds away. 

And this is something quite independent 
of any special ability or special quality on 
the 2 :)art of the individual joeoiDle them- 
selves ; though of course the more gifted 


and cultivated they are, the greater will 
its charm be. ’ 

j ‘Y’es,’ said Miss Merton thoughtfully, 
j and half to herself, ‘ I think all that is 
I quite true.’ 

‘Of course,’ said Laurence, ‘I know 
that tone alone can only make society 
good in a very narrow sense of the word. 
I merely mean that no amount of other 
qualities can make it really good, without 
tone. ’ 

‘I don’t in the least object,’ said Allen, 
‘ to the marble being jDolished ; but what 
I want first to be sure of is, that it is worth 
polishing.’ 

‘ Quite so, ’ said Laurence. ‘ What we 
must now consider is, w'hat are all those 
special qualities and accomplishments, 
which will make a really perfect society 
the best among the best — such things as 
wit, knowledge, experience, humour, and 
so on — the veins, in fact, in the marble, 
that can be brought out by the i^olish.’ 

‘Ah, yes, my dear Laurence,’ began 
Mr. Luke, ‘ this is the great thing that we 
shall have to decide about ; and it is this 
very thing that I am always telling the 
world is ’ 

But he was interrupted by the advent 
of Mr. Herbert, who, with the exce 2 )tion 
of Mr. Storks and Dr. Jenkinson, was the 
only member of the party not already 
there. Mr. Herbert’s whole aspect sur- 
prised everyone. At luncheon, as all re- 
membered, he had been melancholy and 
desponding ; but his face now w^ore a 
bright smile, and there w^as something 
that was almost gaiety in his elastic step. 
No one, however, ventured to ask him the 
reason of this pleasing change ; but as he 
held an oi^en news23a2)er in his hand, 
which he had ap 2 )arently just received, it 
occurred to most that he must have seen 
in it ‘ something to his advantage. ’ 

‘Well,’ he exclaimed to Laurence, in a 
manner quite in keej^ing with his look, 

‘ and tell me now how are you getting on 
wuth your new Kepublic ? You ought to 


59 


THE NEW 

make a very beautiful thing out of it — all 
of YOU together, with so many charming 
ladies. ’ 

‘ Do you think so ?’ said Laurence, in 
great surprise at this cheerful view of 
things. 

‘Yes,’ answered Mr. Herbert, slowly 
and with decision. ‘ Ladies, I always 
think, so long as they are good and hon- 
est, have beautiful imaginations. And 
now, let me ask you, how^ you have set to 
work. ’ 

Laurence explained to him that they 
had begun, on Leslie’s suggestion, with 
considering what society, or the life of the 
highest classes, would be at its best ; and 
that they were going to see afterw^ards 
what was imijlied in this. 

‘ Indeed !’ said Mr. Herbert meditative- 
ly. ‘Now, that is a really beautiful w^ay 
of going about the business. And how 
far, let me ask you, have you got with 
your picture of these highest classes ? I 
trust at all events that you have made a 
good beginning. ’ 

‘A beginning,’ said Laurence, ‘is all 
that we have made. We have agreed that 
our society is to have the utmost polish, 
ease, and grace of manner, and the coni- 
l^letest savoir-vivre. It is, in fact, to be a 
sort of exemplar of human life at its high- 
est conceivable completeness. ’ 

‘Excuse me,’ said Mr. Herbert, ‘but 
the ways of polite life, and the manners 
of fine ladies and gentlemen, are beautiful 
only as the expression of a beautiful spirit ! 
They are altogether hateful as the orna- 
ment or the covering of a vile one. ’ 

‘Yes, Herbert, yes,’ exclaimed Mr. 
Luke, with a long sigh. ‘ And I was 
just going to say this, Avhen you joined 
us — that to make society really good — 
even really brilliant and entertaining — one 
thing is wanted, and that is true and gen- 
uine culture. Then let us have the polish 
by all means ; but let it be a diamond we 
polish, and not a pebble. Our society 
must be one tliat does not merely dance. 


KEPUBLIC. 

and hunt, and shoot. It must think, and 
reason, and read. It must be familiar — 
the wliole of it must be familiar — with the 
great thoughts of the world, the great facts 
of the world, and the great books of the 
world. Y’'ou want all this, if you would 
be perfectly brilliant in your salons, as 
w'ell as really profound in your studies. ’ 

This Avas assented to by nearly all. La- 
dy Ambrose, how^ever, looked a little un- 
comfortable, and not quite satisfied about 
something. 

‘Don’t you think,’ she said at last, ‘ that 
if everyone is to have so much culture, 
society wijl tend to become — well — just a 
little ’ 

‘ Well, Lady Ambrose ?’ said Laurence. 

‘Well, just a little bit blue. It will be 
all too bookish, if you understand wdiat I 
mean. Don’t you know when anyone 
comes to see you in London, and will talk 
of nothing but books, one always fancies 
it is because he isn’t — it’s very uncharita- 
ble to say so, but still it’s true — because 
he isn’t very much in society, and doesn’t 
know ;nany peojde to talk about ?’ 

‘ I ahvay s think it such a blessing, ’ said 
Lord Allen, ‘ to find anyone who will talk 
about books, and will not be X3erpetually 
boring one wdth vulgar gossip and scan- 
dal.’ 

‘ Oh, so do I, ’ said Lady Ambrose, eag- 
erly, ‘ but that was not what I meant ex- 
actly. Mr. Laurence know^s wdiat I mean ; 
I’m sure he does. No one can delight in 
a book more than I ; but still — ’ she said 
X3ausing to think how’ much of what she 
considered culture was to be found in 
those London drawing-rooms wdiere she 
felt her owm life comi3letest, ‘ still — some- 
how — ’ she said wdth a faint smile, ‘ it is 
X3ossible to be too literary, isn’t it, as w^ell 
as too anything else ?’ 

‘Perfectly true. Lady Ambrose,’ said 
Mr. Luke — Lady Ambrose w^as delight- 
ed — ‘x)eox3le continually are too literary — 
to my cost I know it ; and that is because 
the w orld at large — what is called the 


60 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


reading world even more than the non- 
reading world — are hopelessly at sea as to 
what books are, and what they really do 
for ns. In other words, if yon will forgive 
my harping as I do npon a single express- 
ion, they lack cnltnre.’ 

‘ Why, I thonght cnltnre was books and 
literariness, and all that,’ Lady Ambrose 
mnrmnred half aloud, with a look of be- 
wilderment. Mr. Herbert, however, sud- 
denly came to her rescne. 

‘Now, all this;’ he said, ‘is most in- 
teresting ; bnt I feel myself, something as 
I imagine Lady Ambrose does, that I 
should like to know a little more clearly 
what cnltnre is, and wLat yon mean by it, 
when yon call it the essence of good so- 
ciety. ’ 

‘Yes,’ said Lady Ambrose, ‘thisisjnst 
what I like. Come, Mr. Lnke, snjDpose 
yon were to tell ns. ’ 

‘ Suppose, ’ said Mr. Lnke, with an an- 
gust wave of his hand, ‘ instead of that we 
ask Mr. Lanrence to tell ns. No one can 
do so better than he. I, Lady Ambrose, 
have perhaj^s grown something too mnch 
of a specialist to be able to pnt these 
things in a snfficiently i)opnlar way. ’ 

‘ Ah, ’ said Mr. Herbert, ‘ this is really 
nice. I shall like to listen to this. Bnt 
yon must allow me to be merely a listener, 
and not ask me for instrnction. I assure 
yon I am here altogether to be instructed. ’ 

Lanrence, with some diffidence, assented 
to what was asked of him ; and there was 
a general rustling on all sides of the party 
settling themselves down more Inxnrions- 
ly on the grass. Every intlnence of the 
snmmer afternoon conspired to make all 
take kindly to the topic — the living airy 
whisper of the leaves overhead, the W’an- 
dermg scents of the flowers that the breeze 
jnst made j^erceptible, the mnsical siDlash 
of the fountain in its qniet restlessness, 
the Inxnry of the mossy tnrf as soft as 
sleep or rose-leaves, and a far faint mnr- 
mnr of chnrch-bells tliat now and then 
invaded the ear gently, like a vague ap- 


l^ealing dream. Mr. Saunders even was 
caressed by his flattered senses into peace- 
fulness ; the high and dry light of the 
intellect ceased to scintillate in his eyes ; 
the spirit of progress condescended to 
take a temporary doze. 


CHAPTER II. 

‘And now, Mr. Laurence,’ said Lady 
Ambrose, ‘ begin at the beginning, please, 
and don’t do as Lord Kennington did at 
the Eton and How'ard match the other 
day — go talking to me about “ overs,” and 
“ long-stops,” and things like that, before 
I Tvas even quite sure of the difference be- 
tw'een “out” and “in.” 

‘Of course,’ Laurence began, smiling 
with a little prefatory shyness, ‘ we can all 
understand the difference between a coarse 
common rustic palate, like that of the 
burly farmer, for instance, who just enjoys 
food in a brute way when he is hungry, 
and drinks so long as it is si^irituous at all 
times ; and the palate of the true epicure, . 
that is sensitive to taste as the nicest ear 
is to music, and can discriminate i^erfectly 
all the subtile semitone and chords of fa^ 
vour. Well, transfer this image from the 
mouth to the mind, and there’s the wdiole 
thing in a nutshell. There is culture and 
no culture. A i)erson is really cultivated 
when he can taste not only the broad fla- 
vours of life — gulping its joys and sorrows 
dowm, either with a vulgar grimace of 
disgust, or an ecxually vulgar hearty vo- 
racitv ; but wdien wutli a delicate self-pos- 
session he appreciates all the subtler taste 
of things, when he discriminates between 
joy and joy, between sorrow and sorrow', 
between love and love, between career and 
career ; discerning in all incidents and 
emotions their beauty, their xjathos, their 
absurdity, or their tragedy, as the case 
may be. ’ 


THE NE^Y EEPUBLIO. 


61 


‘ You mean, then, ’ said Miss Merton, 
‘that a man of the highest culture is a 
sort of emotional hon vivcmt?' 

‘ That surely is hardly a fair way — ’ be- 
gan Laurence. 

‘ Excuse me, my dear Laurence, ’ broke 
in Mr. Luke, in his most magnificent of 
manners, ‘it is 23erfectly fair — it is ad- 
mirably fair. Emotional hon vivant ! ’ he 
exclaimed. ‘I thank Miss Merton for 
teaching me that word ! for it may remind 
us all,’ Mr. Luke continued, drawing out 
his words slowly, as if he liked the taste 
of them, ‘ how neaf our view of the matter 
is to that of a certain Galilean peasant — 
of whom Miss Merton has x>erhaps heard’ 
— who described the highest culture by 
just the same metaphor, as a hunger and a 
thirst after righteousness. Our notion of 
it difiers only from his, from the Zeitgeist 
having made it somewhat wider. ’ 

Miss Merton, in her inmost soul, did 
anything but return Mr. Luke’s compli- 
ment, and consider his comment on her 
words as either admirably or perfectly 
fair. However, she held her peace. The 
thoughts of Lady Ambrose had been flow- 
ing in a slightly difierent direction. 

‘ But what I want to ask, ’ she said, ‘ is 
this. I want to know why it is that when- 
ever one hears it said, “ Oh, So-and-so is a 
very cultivated person,” one always expects 
to find him — well, almost half professional 
as it were, or at least able to talk of noth- 
ing but music, or painting, or books ? I 
mean, a man who’s merely a cultivated 
person doesn’t seem ever to be quite a 
man of the world, or to be much good in 
society, except when one wants him to 
talk on his own subjects — I hate iDeople 
myself who have subjects — and then ten to 
one, he doesn’t know when to leave off. 
Now, Mr. Laurence, I see you want to in- 
terrupt me ; but do let me say my say. A 
right amount of culture is of course de- 
delightful, and personally, I don’t much 
care for people who haven’t got it. But 
too much of it — I’m sure, Mr. Laurence, 


you must agree with me at heart — ^is a 
mistake. And that, you know, is all I 
mean about it ; nothing more than 
that. ’ 

‘ All, ’ said Laurence, smiling, ‘ 1 think 
I see what it is. You will look on culture 
as some S23ecial kind of accomplishment 
or taste, like music ; and you think that 
in some siiecial way it is bound up with 
books ; and books you look ujion as some- 
thing s^iecial also, beginning and ending 
with themselves ; and, unless I am much 
mistaken, you think that the more boolts 
a man has read, the more cultivated you 
may safely call him. ’ 

‘Not all books,’ said Lady Ambrose in 
an injured tone. ‘ Of course I don’t mean 
trashy novels, and of course I don’t mean 
blue-books, or books of history. ’ 

‘ But what I want first of all to impress 
on you, ’ said Laurence, ‘ is that whatever 
its relations to books may be, culture is by 
no means a bookish thing, or a thing that 
ought to be less in j)lace at Hurlingham 
than at the South Kensington Museum. 
Nor is it in any sense a hobby, or a special 
taste, to be gratified at the exjiense of any- 
thing else. Instead of that, it is the edu- 
cation of all our tastes, of all our j^owera 
of enjoying life ; and, so far from its be- 
ing a thing for recluses, and a substitute 
for society, it is only when naturalised in 
the best society that it can at all do itself 
justice in exj^ressing itself outwardly, or 
even exist in any comjDleteness inwardly- ’ 

Lady Ambrose smiled, and looked more 
interested, and began to give Laurence 
her most intelligent attention. 

‘ Still, ’ Laurence went on, ‘ culture and 
books have a good deal to do with one an- 
other ; and since they are so bound up to- 
gether in your mind, let us try to see at 
once what the relation really is. Let us 
begin, then, with that part of culture 
which in this sense is most bound ujd with 
books — most bound uj) because it cannot 
be got without them ; the part of culture, 
I mean, that comes from the knowledge 


62 


THE NEAY REPUBLIC. 


of the past — from a knoT\ieclge of history, 
ill short, or jiarts of history.’ 

Lady Ambrose here took Laurence fair- 
ly aback by tlie way in which slie repeated 
the word ‘ History !’ 

‘WeU, judging from the results I have 
seen, ’ she said, with an amount of decision 
in her voice that was positively startling, 

‘ I eaiyiot say, Mr. Laurence, that I agree 
with you. And I think that on this sub- 
ject I have a right to sjieak. ’ 

‘ AA'hat on earth can the woman be mean- 
ing ?’ said Mr. Luke to himself. 

‘ It is not a fortnight ago, ’ Lady Am- 
brose went on, ‘ that I sat at dinner by 
somebody — I won’t tell you his name — 
who had not only read heaven knows how 
much history, but had written, I believe, 
even more than he had read. And what 
do you think this good man did during all 
the early part of dinner ? Why, he did 
nothing but fume, and fret, and bluster, 
so that everyone was made uncomfortable, 
simply because somebody said that Kuig 
Harold was not quite so excellent a char- 
acter as the late Prince Consort ; and I 
heard him muttering, ‘ ‘ Wliat monstrous 
injustice ! What monstrous ignorance !” 
to himself for nearly half an hour. I 
don’t think I ever saw such a — I was go- 
ing to say,’ said Lady Ambrose, laughing 
softly, ‘ such a beast — but I won’t ; I’ll 
say a bear instead. At last, however — 
I don’t know how it came about — he 
said to me, in a very solemn voice, — 
“What a terrible defeat that was which 
we had at Bouvines !” I answered timidly 
— not thinlang we were at war with any- 
one — that I had seen nothing about it in 
the papers. “H’m!” he said, giving a 
sort of grunt that made me feel dreadfully 
ignorant, “why, I had an Excursus on it 
myself in the ‘ Archa3ological Gazette,’ 
only last week.” And, do you know, it 
turned out that the Battle of Bouvines 
was fought in the thirteenth century, and 
had as far as I could make out, some- 
thing to do with Magna Charta. Now, 


Mr. Laurence, if that’s the sort of cul- 
ture one gets from studying history, I'm 
glad T\e forgotten even the names of 
the twelve Caesars, and the dates of the 
kings of England. Besides,’ Lady Am- 
-Brose added, ^ it makes one think what a 
serious thing it is to lose a battle, if peo- 
2 )le are to be made so cross about it six 
hundred years afterwards’. 

‘ I quite agree with you, ’ said Laurence, 

‘ that if that’s the sort of culture one gets 
from history, we had better never open a 
history book again. But history, Lady 
Ambrose, has very little to do with the 
Battle of Bouvines, and nothing with the 
T^haracter of Harold.’ 

‘ Then what has it got to do with it ?’ 
asked Lady Ambrose incredulously. ‘ It 
certainly has to do w ith kings, and Avars, 
and facts, and dates, hasn’t it ?’ 

‘ AWiat people call facts,’ said Laurence, 

‘ are only the dry bones of history. It is 
quite true that most professed historians 
have hitherto, instead of painting the face 
of the past, simply made discrepant notes 
about the shape of the skull ; e\'erything 
that could give the shape of the skull the 
least significance they left unthought of, 
or dismissed it in an occasional chapter. 
But really the least important of all the 
Avorld's events are those that you can local- 
ise exactly, and put an exact date to ; 
those Avhich alone most historians see.’ 

‘But,’ interposed Miss Merton, ‘don’t 
you call such things as the events in Cae- 
sar’s life, for instance, or Hildebrand’s 
history ?’ 

‘Looked upon simply as events,’ said 
Laurence, ‘I call them biography, or I 
call them iIb(straiions of history ; but I do 
not call them history. History, in its 
true sense, is a travelling in the j)ast ; the 
best of histories Avould be but the carriage 
or the steamboat you travelled by ; your 
histories of dates and battles are at best 
but the Bradshaw’s and the railway-maps. 
Our })ast must be an extension of the pres- 
ent, or it is no real past. Now I expect. 


THE NEW KEPUBLIO. 


63 


Lady Ambrose, that, in its true sense, you 
know a good deal more history than you 
are aware of. I sa'vV^ you reading Saint- 
Simon yesterday evening, and you alluded 
to Grammont’s Memoirs at dinner.’ 

‘ Oh, of course,’ said Lady Ambrose, 
‘ books like that ! But, then, they really 
give 3 "ou such a notion of the times, and 
quite take you back to them. ’ 

‘Nothing is history that does not,’ said 
Laurence. 

‘Really,’ exclaimed Lady Ambrose, 
brightening. ‘ “ II y a plus de vingt ans 
que je dis de la prose, sans que j’en susse 
rien. ” And so it seems that I have known 
history without suspecting it, just as M. 
Jourdain talked 2 U’ose.’ 

‘ Pardon me, ’ cried Mr. Saunders, ‘ if I 
interrupt you for a moment ; but, Mr. 
Laurence, though I admit that there is a 
great deal of truth in what you say, you 
have not even alluded to the great func- 
tion of history, nor have you even hinted 
at the great use of facts. However, per- 
haps, I had better reserve what I have to 
say on this, as well as on certain other mat- 
ters, till by-and-by. ’ 

‘Very well,’ said Laurence, ‘if history, 
then, is a travelling in the past — what else 
it is, as Mr. Saunders says, we can talk of 
afterwards — don’t you see what it does for 
us. Lady Ambrose, in the way of culture — 
does for us, not as students, but as men 
and women of the world ? Just think for 
a moment what our own age would seem 
to us if all the past, beyond the memories 
of our grandfathers, was a blank to us : 
and then think how infinitely our minds 
are enlarged, how a freer air, as it were, 
seems to blow through them, even from 
that vague knowledge of the past afloat in 
the world, which we pick up here and 
there as we go along. Even that has an 
effect upon us. It in-events us being, as 
we else should be, merely temporal jpeople, 
who are just as narrow-minded and dull 
as those merely local jDeople — the natives 
of a neighbourhood — who wear gorgeous 


ribands at flower-shows in the country. 
Don't you remember last year, when I was 
staying with you, how you pointed some 
of them out to me, and how amused you 
were at their ways and their finery ?’ 

Lady Ambrose smiled and nodded. 

‘Go on, Mr. Laurence — I can under- 
stand all this,’ she said. ‘But I want to 
hear a little more. ’ 

VWell,’ said Mr. Laurence, ‘your own 
knowledge of the history of France and 
England during the last two hundred years 
— you know well enough how that has 
made you, in a certain sense, more a wom- 
an of the world. What w'ould you be, for 
instance, if you never knew that there had 
been a French Revolution, or an English 
Revolution — a Cromwell, or a Louis Qua- 
torze, or a Mirabeau ? But your knowl- 
edge of history does not end here. You 
know something, at any rate, of the feu- 
dal times. You know what a castle was 
like, what a knight was like, what a monk 
was like. You know something, too, of 
Roman and Greek history ; and, come — 
to go no farther — you know the Bible. ’ 

‘I hoi^e,’ said Lady Ambrose, in a voice 
of reproving solemnity, ‘that one would 
not call that history. ’ 

‘ Certainly not,’ said Mr. Saunders, with 
a small suppressed chuckle. 

‘At all events,’ proceeded Laurence, 
ignoring these interruptions, ‘you know 
something of Greece, and Rome, and Pal- 
estine, and Egypt ; and each of tliese 
names is really a little aerial chariot which 
carries your imagination back as you jDro- 
nounce it into some remote age, when life 
was diderent from what it is now. So is 
the mind widened by even a little vague 
history. Or, just repeat to yourself such 
words as France and Italy ^ and think for a 
moment of the effect of them. They are 
not mere names — mere geographical ex- 
pressions; but they are sjiells which evoke, 
whether you will or no, hosts of subtle as- 
sociations, rising up like S23irits out of the 
past centuries, and hovering in the air. 


64 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


round YOU with their unbidden influence, ' 
and mixing with all jour notions of Eu-i 
rope as it is now. Or, would you feel the | 
matter more strongly yet, think, when you j 
are traYelling, what but for history would i 
Venice be, or Athens, or Jerusalem ? If | 
it were not for history, be it never so I 
vaguely understood, would you And the ! 
same indescribable fascination in Rome ?’ 

‘I never was at Rome,’ said Lady Aln- 
brose. ‘We’re going there next winter 
with the Kenningtons.’ 

This piece of intelligence brought Lau- 
rence to a stoj). Mr. Rose' however, whose 
imagination had been fired by all this talk 
a])out history, suddenly broke forth. 

‘And also,’ he exclaimed, ‘is it not by 
history alone that we can in our day learn 
anything of the more subtle and gorgeous 
dyes that life is capable of taking — Iioav 
fair a thing it may be, how rich in harmo- 
nious freedom, and beauty of form, and 
love, and passionate friendship ? Why, 
but for history, what should we be now but 
a flock of listless barbarians, di^scpaziov 
d/dyxios er/Tj Tidvzdi 

Would not all life’s choicer and subtler 
pleasures be lost to us, if Athens did not 
still live to redeem us from the bondage 
of the middle age, and if the Italian 
Renaissance — that strange child of Aph- 
rodite and Tannhauser, did not still live 
to stimulate us out of the torpor of the 
I^resent age ? What, but for history, 
should we know,’ cried Mr. Rose, ‘ of the 
Xd()c^ of Greece, of the lust of Rome, of 
the strange secrets of the Borgias ? Con- 
sider, too, the bowers of quiet, full of 
sweet dreams, that history will always 
keep for us — how it surrounds the house 
of the present with the boundless gardens 
of the 259,st — gardens rich in woods, and 
waters, and flowers, and outlooks on 
illimitable seas. Think of the immortal 
dramas which history sets before us ; of 
the keener and profounder passions which 
it shows in action, of the exquisite grouj^s 
and figures it reveals to us, of nobler 


mould than ours — Harmodius and Aristo- 
geiton, Achilles and Patroclus, David and 
Jonathan, our English Edward and the 
fair Piers Gaveston, daa z" wxujuopo^: 
xai 7[tpi -dpzcop, or, above 

all, those two by the agnus castus and 
the 23lane-tree where Ilysstis flowed,’ — 
Mr. Rose’s voice gradually subsided, — 
‘ and where the Attic grasshojDpers chiiq)- 
ed in shrill summer choir. ’ 

‘ At any rate. Lady Ambrose,’ Laurence 
resumed briskly, ‘you now see something 
of the way in which history gives us cul- 
ture ; and you see, too, — this is the chief 
13oint I want to imjDress upon you, — that 
in history, and many other things as well, 
books are only the telescopes through 
which we see distant facts ; and we no 
more become hoolcisli by such a use of 
books than you became optical wJien you 
looked through your telescope in Glou- 
cestershire, and saw Captain Audley, at 
the bottom of the park, proposing to your 
under-keeper’s daughter. ’ 

‘I really do believe,’ said Lady Am- 
brose, ‘ that that man is a little off his 
head. However,’ she went on laughing, 
‘I give up about the bookishness, Mr. 
Laurence, and I dare say one really is the 
better for knowing something about his- 
tory ; but still, I can’t help thinking that 
the chief thing to know about is, after all, 
the life about one, and that knowledge, 
just like charity, should begin at home.’ 

“There,’ said Laurence, ‘we quite 
agree ; and that, if I managed to express 
myself clearly, was the very thing that I 
set out with saying. It is with the fife 
about us that all our concern lies ; and 
culture’s double end is simply this — to 
make us appreciate that life, and to make 
that life w’orth appreciating. We only 
study the past to adorn our present, or to 
make our view of it clearer. And now, 
since we have at any rate suggested how 
this is done, let us put the past, and the 
distant too — everything, in fact, to which 
books are only the telescopes — out of our 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


65 


minds altogether, and merely consider the 
real heart of the matter — culture and the 
present. I tried to exj^lain just now that 
we meant by a man of culture one on 
whom none of the finer flavours of life are 
lost — who can appreciate, s'lhypathise with, 
critisise, all the scenes, situations, sayings, 
or actions around him — a sad or happy 
love-affair, a charm of manner and conver- 
sation, a beautiful sunset, or a social ab- 
surdity. I declare,’ said Laurence, ‘I 
could tell better whether a man was really 
cultivated, from the way in which he talked 
gossip, or told a story, than from the way 
in which he discussed a poem or a pic- 
ture. ’ 

‘Certainly,’ said Leslie. ‘I don’t call 
a woman cultivated who bothers me at 
dinner first with discussing this book and 
then that — whose one perpetual question 
is, “Have you read So-and-so?” But I 
call a woman cultivated who responds and 
who knows what I mean as we pass nat- 
urally from subject to subject — who by a 
flash or a softness in her eyes, by a slight 
gesture of the hand, by a sigh, by a flush 
in the cheek, makes n^e feel as I talk of 
some lovely scene than she too could love 
it — as I speak of love or sorrow, makes me 
feel that she herself has known them ; as 
I speak of ambition, or ennui, or hope, or 
remorse, or loss of character, makes me 
feel that all these are not mere names to 
her, but things. ’ 

‘ Do you call me cultivated, Mr. Leslie ?’ 
whispered Mrs. Sinclair, in a soft iDaren- 
thesis. 

‘I mean,’ said Leslie, finishing, ‘ I like 
to hear each key I touch make, not a dead 
thud, as on a piece of wood, but strike a 
musical string. ’ 

‘ Good, ’ murmured Mr. Bose ; ‘ that is 
good ! Yes,’ he continued, ‘the aim of 
culture, if Mr. Leslie will lend me his 
nice metaphor, is indeed to make the soul 
a musical instrument, which may yield 
music either to itself or to others, at any 
ajppulse from without ; and the more 
6 


elaborate a man’s culture is, the richer 
and more composite can this music be. 
The minds of some men are like a simple 
pastoral reed. Only single melodies, and 
these unaccompanied, can be played upon 
them — glad or sad ; whilst the minds of 
others, who look at things from countless 
points of view, and realise, as Shakespeare 
did, their composite nature — their minds 
become, as Shakespeare’s was, like a great 
orchestra. Or sometimes,’ said Mr. Bose, 
dreamily, as if his talk was lapsing into a 
soliloquy, ‘ when he is a mere passive ob- 
server of things, letting impressions from 
Avithout move him as they will, I would 
compare the man of culture to an iEolian 
harp, Avhich the wunds at will play through 
— a beautiful face, a rainbow, a ruined 
temple, a death-bed, or a line of poetry, 
wandering in like a breath of air amongst 
the chords of his soul, touching note after 
note into soft music, and at last gently 
dying away into silence. ’ 

‘Well, noAV,’ said Laurence, in a very 
matter-of-fact tone, for he saw that Mr. 
Bose’s dreamy manner always tended to 
confuse Lady Ambrose, ‘ since we are now 
clear that the aim of culture is to make us 
better company as men and women of the 
world, let us consider a little farther how 
culture is attained. We have just spoken 
of histories and other books, which merely 
bring us face to face with facts that would 
else be out of our reach. We now come 
to two other things — the facts of the 
life about us, the facts which experience 
teaches us, and to Avhich all other facts 
are secondary ; and, farther, to the way 
in which all this knowledge — the know- 
ledge of the living present especially — is 
(for we have really not talked of this at all 
yet) turned into culture. Mere acquaint- 
ance with facts will not do it ; mere ex- 
perience of facts will not do it. A wom- 
an, for instance, may have had all kinds of 
experience — society, sorrow, love, travel, 
remorse, distraction — and yet she may not 
be cultivated. She may have gone through 


66 


THE NEW KEPUBLIO. 


everything only half consciously. She 
may never have recognised what her life 
has been. What is needed to teach her — 
to turn this raw material into culture ? 
Here, Lady Ambrose, we come to our 
friends the books again — not, however, to 
such books as histories, but to books of 
art, to poetry, and books akin to poetry. 
The former do but enlarge our own com- 
mon experience. The latter are an expe- 
rience in themselves, and an experience 
that interprets all former experiences. 
The mind, if I may borrow an illustration 
from photography, is a sensitised plate, 
always ready to receive the images made 
by experience on it. Poetry is the de- 
veloping solution, w’hich first makes these 
images visible. Or, to put it in another 
way, if some books are the telescopes with 
which we look at distant facts, poetry — I 
use the word in its widest sense — is a 
magic mirror which shows us the facts 
about us reflected in it as no telescope or 
microscope could show them to us. Let 
a person of experience look into this, and 
experience then becomes culture. For in 
that magic mirror w^e see our life sur- 
rounded with issues viewless to the com- 
mon eye. We see it compassed about 
with chariots of fire and with horses of 
fire. Then we know the real aspect of 
our joys and sorrows. We see the linea- 
ments, we look into the eyes of thoughts, 
and desires, and associations, which had 
been before unseen and scarcely suspected 
presences — dim swarms clustering around 
our every action. Then how all kinds of 
objects and of feelings begin to cling to- 
gether in our minds 1 A single sense or a 
single memory is touched, and a thrill 
runs through countless others. The smell 
of autumn woods, the colour of dying fern, 
may turn by a subtle transubstantiation 
into pleasures and faces that will never 
come again — a red sunset and a windy 
sea-shore into a last farewell, and the 
regret of a lifetime. * 

Laurence had chosen these illustrations 


of his quite at random ; but he was for- 
tunate in the last in a way which he never 
dreamt of. Lady Ambrose, in her early 
and unwise days, had actually had a love- 
affair. She had been engaged to a hand- 
some young Guardsman, with only eleven 
hundred a year, and no prospects but 
debts ; and though she had successfully 
exchanged him for Sir George and his 
million of money, she still sometimes re- 
called him, and the wild September even- 
ing when she had seen her last of him 
upon Worthing pier. 

‘Ah,’ she exclaimed, wdth some emotion 
in her voice, ‘ I know exactly what you 
mean now. Why, there have been poems 
at one time or another of one’s life, that 
one could really hardly bear to hear re- 
peated. Now, there’s that of Byron’s, 
“Wlien we two parted.” I don’t even 
know if it is right to think it a good 
poem — but still, do you know, there was 
a time w hen, just because it w^as connected 
with something — it almost made me cry if 
anyone repeated or sang it — one of my 
brothers, I know, wdio had a beautiful 

voice, was always ’ Lady Ambrose 

here grew conscious '-hat she w^as showdng 
more feeling than she thought at all be- 
coming. She blushed, she stammered a 
little, and then, making a rush at another 
topic, ‘ But what is Mr. Bose, ’ she ex- 
claimed, ‘saying about the Clock-tow^er 
and the Thames Embankment ?’ 

‘ I was merely thinking,’ said Mr. Bose, 
who had been murmuring to himself at 
intervals for some time, ‘ of a delicious 
walk I took last week, by the river side, 
between Charing Cross and Westminster. 
The great clock struck the cliimes of mid- 
night ; a cool w ind blew ; and there went 
streaming on the wide wild w^aters with 
long vistas of reflected lights w^avering 
and quivering in them ; and I roamed 
about for hours, hoping I might see some 
unfortunate cast herself from the Bridge 
of Sighs. It was a night I thought well 
in harmony with despair. Fancy,’ ex- 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


67 


claimed Mr. Rose, ‘the infinity of emo- 
tions which the sad sudden sj^lash in the 
dark river would awaken in one’s mind — 
and all due to that one poem of Hood’s !’ 

‘Yes,’ said Laurence, not having lis- 
tened to Mr. Rose, who spoke, indeed, 
somewhat low, ‘Yes,’ he said, continuing 
the same train of thought he had left off 
with, and looking first at Lady Ambrose 


and then at Miss Merton, ‘ is it not poetry 
that does all this for the world ? 1 use 
l)oetry in its widest sense, and include in 
it all imaginative literature, and other art 
as well. Is it not the poet that gives our 
existence all its deepest colours, or en- 
ables us to give them to it ourselves ? Is 
it not — if I may quote a translation of 
Goethe that I made myself — 


IsH not the harmony that from his bosom springSj 
And back into Atself the lohole world brings? 

When Nature round her spindle, co^d and sti'ong, 
Winds on and on the endless threads of things; 

When all existences, a tuneless throng, 

Make discord as with jangling strings. 

Whose life-breath bids the flux of blind creation 
Move to a rhythmic music of his own ? 

Who calls each single thing to the common consecration, 
When rapturously it trembles into tone? 

Who sets our wild moods and the storms in tune? 
Our sad moods, and the still eve's crimson's glow ? 
Who showers down all Pke loveliest flowers of June, 
Wlie)'e she, the heart's beloved, will go? 

Who, of a few green leaves in silly twine. 

Makes toil's immortal guerdon, art's reward. 

Raises the mortal, draws down the divine? 

The power of man incarnate in the bard A 


And so, ’ Laurence went on, ‘ if it is to the 
bard that we owe all these fine things, w^e 
need surely not fear that we shall be 
thought bookish if we say that a society 
cannot be really good that does not as a 
body draw a large amount of its nourish- 
ment from the bard’s work. Of course in 
one sense poetry exists unwritten ; but in 
the general run of people this will never 
properly awake itself, make itself availa- 
ble, but at the spell of written poetry. — 
Nay, this is true even of the poet himself. 
Why else does he externalise his feelings — 
give them a body ? " As I say, however, 
the general catholic use of poetry is not to 
make us admire the poetry of poems but 
discern the poetry of life. I myself,’ 

* Vide F(Xkt.si, Prologue for the Theatre. 


Laurence went on, ‘ am devoted to litera- 
ture as literature, to poetry as poetry. I 
value it not only because it makes me ap- 
preciate the originals of the things it deals 
with, but for itself. I often like the de- 
scription of a sunset better than I like the 
sunset ; I don’t care two straws about Lib- 
erty, but my mind is often set all aglow 
by a good ode to her. I delight in, I can 
talk over, I can brood over, the form of a 
stanza, the music of a line, the turn of a 
phrase, the flavour of an epithet. Few 
things give me such pleasure for the mo- 
ment as an aj^t quotation from Horace or 
Shakespeare. But this, I admit, is a hob- 
by — a private hobby — this distinct literary 
taste, just as a taste for blue china is, and 
must certainly not be confused with cul- 
ture in its deeper and wider sense. ’ 


G8 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


‘All,’ said Mr. Rose earnestly, ‘don’t! 
despise this merely literary culture, as you 
call it, or the pleasure it is to have at 
command a beautiful (piotation. As I 
liave been lying on the bank here, this 
afternoon^ and looking up into the trees, 
and watching the blue sky, glancing be- ! 
tween the leaves of them — as I have been . 
listening to the hum of the insects, or ; 
looking out with half-shut eyes towards | 
the sea across the green rustling shrubs, | 
and the red rose-blossoms, fragments of j 
poetry have been murmuring in my mem- 1 
orv like a swarm of bees, and have been I 
carrying my fancy hither and thither in I 
all manner of swift luxurious ways. The 
“ spreading fiivour,” for instance, of these 
tret^s we sit under, brought just now into 
my mind those magical words of Virgil’s — 

O qui me gelidis in vallibus Haemi 
Sistat, et ingenti ramorum protegat umbra ! 


scarcely know how, the memory of some 
lines in one of Petrarch’s Epistles — 

Soporifero clausam qui murmure vallem 
Implet inexhausto descendens alveus amne — 

and my imagination, on the wings of the 
verses, was borne away floating towards 
Vaucluse. Think, then, within the space 
of five minutes how many thoughts and 
sensations, composite and crowded, can, 
by the agency of mere literature, enrich 
the mind, and make life inteiiser. ’ 

‘ Aitd I — ’ said Laurence, smiling — ‘ do 
you see tliat far-away sail out on the hori- 
zon line ? — well, I caught myself murmur- 
ing over a scrap of Milton, only two min- 
utes ago — 

As when afar at sea a fleet descried 
Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial gales 
Close sailing from Bengala. 


What a picture there ! What a thrill it 
sent all through me, like a rush of en- 
chanted wind ! In another moment the 
verse that goes just before, also came to 
me — 

Virginibus bacchata Lacaenis 
Taygeta 

and into the delicious scene now around 
me — this beautiful modern garden — mixed 
instantly visions of Greek mountains, and 
ragged summits, and choirs of Laconian 
maidens maddened with a divine enthusi- 
asm, and with fair white vesture wu'ldly 
floating. Again, another line from the 
same j)oem, from the same i)assage, touch- 
ed my memory, and changed, in a mo- 
ment, the whole complexion of my feel- 
ings— 

Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas. 

Think of that ! The spirit is whirled away 
in a moment of time, and set amongst new 
images, quite other sources of excitement. 
But again, in an instant, the splash of the 
fountain caught my oar, and awoke, I 


Why, I could go on capping verses wuth 
you the whole afternoon, if we had noth- 
ing else to do. But besides this, a knowl- 
edge of books as books has got another 
use. How it enriches conversation, by en- 
abling us to talk by hints and allusions, 
and to convey so many more meanings 
than our actual words express. I came 
across an exquisite instance of this the 
other day, in a book of anecdotes about 
the poet Rogers, which shows how a fa- 
miliarity with the scenes even of Greek 
poetry may give a brilliance to fashionable 
talk in the nineteenth century. One eve- 
ning at Miss Lydia White’s — she was a 
Tory, and well known then in society — a 
guest who was a Whig, said apropos of 
the dejiressed state of his own party at the 
time, “ There is nothing left for us but to 
sacrifice a Tory virgin.” “Yes,” said 
Miss Lydia White, ‘ ‘ I believe there’s noth- 
ing the Whigs wouldn’t do to raise 
triad.'' But yet, after all, this is m)t the 
important thing, and I hope Lady Am- 
brose will forgive us for having talked so 
long about it. ’ 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


69 


^ And so one mmt read a great deal, after 
all to be really cultivated,’ said Lady Am- 
brose, in a disai)i3ointed tone. ‘ You’ve 
made culture seem so nice, tliat I feel pos- 
itively quite ashamed to think how seldom 
now I look at a line of poetry, except, of 
course, when anything new comes out, 
that everybody read.’ 

‘I don’t think you need be afraid on 
that score,’ said Leslie. ‘If society is to 
be cultivated, it must, no doubt, read a 
good deal, as a body. But all its mem- 
bers need not. With women especially, 
nothing startles me more than when I find 
sometimes how very far, if they have had 
any serious experience of the world and 
life, a very little poetry will go.’ 

‘I expect,’ said Miss Merton, ‘ that we 
are naturally more introspective than men, 
and so, in what concerns ourselves, a very 
little will make us cultivated ; although 
we don’t certainly get so -easily as men 
that indifferent way of looking on life as a 
whole, wdiich I supj^ose is what you call 
the dramatic spirit, and which people so 
praise in Shakespeare. But as to what 
Mr. Leslie says, I have so often noticed 
the same thing in girls — especially at 
times when they are passing into woman- 
liood, without having made much of a 
success of youth. I remember one jDoor 
friend of mine, whose whole life seemed 
to become clear to her through just one 
line of Tennyson’s — 

My life has crept so long on a broken wing. 

I suppose it was a sort of magic mirror to 
her, as Mr. Laurence was saying just now.’ 

‘I,’ said Leslie, ‘once knew some one 
at Baden, who spent half her time at the 
tables, as much the observed of all observ- 
ers as Worth and her own strange beauty 
could make her — she liked being stared at 
—and who was certainly not a woman 
who gave much of her time to reading. 
She was very wretched with her husband, 
and her name was far from being above 
the reach of gossip. Talking to her one 


day in a hardish flippant sort of way — a 
tone of talk which she affected to like — I 
alluded by some chance to Francesca di 
Bimini in Dante ; and I shall never forget 
the tone in which she exclaimed, “Poor 
Francesca !” — its passion and its pathos. 
I was surprised that she had even looked 
into Dante ; but she had ; and that one 
passage had lit up her whole life for her — 
that one picture of the two lovers “going 
forever on the accursed air.”’ 

‘ How nice of you, Mr. Leslie, ’ said Mrs. 
Sinclair, ‘ to remember my poor verses !’ 

‘Let us consider, too,’ said Laurence, 

‘ that poetry does not only enable us to 
appreciate what we have already experi- 
enced, but it puts us in the way of getting 
new experiences. This was Wordsworth’s 
special claim for poetry, that it widened 
our sympathies — widened them in some 
new direction — that it was ever giving us, 
in fact, not new quotations, but new cul- 
ture. ’ 

‘Ah, here,’ said Leslie, ‘ is a thing that 
continually occurs to me. Just consider 
for a moment the wonderful social effect 
of even so partial a thing as the culture 
that Wordsworth himself gave us. Con- 
sider the effect of it on a common worldly 
woman — let her be girl or matron — who 
without it would be nothing but a half 
mechanical creature, living, as far as her 
interests went, a wretched hand-to-mouth 
existence of thin distraction, or eager anx- 
ious scheming for herself or her daughters. 
Cultivate her, I say, just in this one direc- 
tion — give lier but this one fragment of 
culture, a love of Nature — and all the 
mean landscape of her mind will be lit ujJ 
with a sudden beauty, as the beam of ideal 
sunshine breaks across it, with its “ light 
that never was on sea or land.” I don’t 
say that such a woman will become better 
for this, but she will become more inter- 
esting. In a girl, however pretty, what is 
there to interest a man if he reads nothing 
in her face from night to night but that 
she is getting daily more worn and jaded 


70 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


in the search for a rich husband ? Or 
even, to go a step higher, in the unthink- 
ing, uncultivated flirt, so common in every 
class of society — what is there in her that 
a man will not soon discover to be insij^id 
and wearying ?’ 

‘Surely,’ remonstrated Mrs. Sinclair 
plaintively, ‘ that rather depends on what 
she is like. I must stand up for my sex. ’ 

‘But give her,’ Leslie went on, ‘one 
genuine, one disinterested taste, and all is 
changed. If I had an audience about me j 
of young ladies, whom it was not too late 
to advise — girls entering on the world, de- 
termined to run the worldly course, and 
to satisfy all the expectations of the most 
excellent and lowest-minded of chaperons, 

I would say this to them : — I have no 
doubt you are all ignorant ; of course you 
are all vain. That to make a brilliant 
match is your great object, you all allow. 
A certain sort of flirting, of which the less 
said the better, is your most disinterested 
taste. I know all this (I should say), and 
I can’t help it ; nor do I ask you to alter 
one of these points for the better. But 
this I do ask you to do. Try to add some- 
thing else to them. Try to win for your- 
selves one taste of a truer and deeper 
sort. Study Wordsworth, and some parts 
of Shelley ; open out your sympathies, by 
their aid, in just one direction. Learn to i 
love the sea, and the woods, and the wild | 
flowers, with all their infinite changes of 
scent, and colour, and sound — the purj^le 
moor, the brown mountain stream, the 
rolling mists, the wild smell of the heath- 
er. Let these things grow to “ haunt you 
like a passion,” learn in this way the art of 

desiring 

More in this world than any understand. 

You’ll perhaps find it a little dull at first ; 
but go on, and don’t be disheartened ; and 
then — by-and-by— by-and-by, go and look 
in the looking-glass, and study your own 
face. Hasn’t some new look, cliild, come 
into your eyes, and given them an ex- i 


in-ession — a something that they wanted 
before ? Smile. Hasn’t your smile some 
strange meaning in it that it never used to 
have ? You are a little more melancholy, 
perhaps. But no matter. The melan- 
choly is worth its cost. You are now a 
mystery. Men can’t see through you at a 
glance as they did ; and so, as Sterne says, 
“you have their curiosity on your side,” 
and that alone — even that will have in- 
creased your value tenfold in our Baby- 
lonian marriage-market. ’ 

‘ Well, Mr. Leslie,’ said Lady Ambrose, 
with severe gravity, ‘if that’s the way 
you’d talk to young ladies, I should be 
very careful you never spoke to any that 
I had anything to do with. ’ 

‘Many people, I know,’ Leslie went on, 
passing by the rebuke, ‘ think that books 
and culture are a kind of substitute for 
lile, and that the real masters in the jirt of 
living have no need for this j^oor pis-aller. 
They only drive four-in-hand, or shoot, or 
dance, or run away w'ith their friends’ 
wives. But no mistake can be greater. 
Culture is not a substitute for life, but the 
key to it. It is really to the men of cul- 
ture, to the men who have read and who 
have thought, that all exercise, all dis- 
tractions, mental or bodily, moral or im- 
moral, yield their finer keener pleasures. 
They are the men that husbands dread for 
their wives; and that fascinating people 
find fascinating. ’ 

Lady Ambrose much disaj)proved of the 
tone of this S23eech ; but none the less, in 
a certain mysterious way, did it insidious- 
ly increase her appreciation of the value of 
culture ; and she felt that with Laurence, 
at any rate, she most thoroughly agreed, 
when he said by way of summing uj) — 

‘ And so now I think we see what culture 
is, and the reason why it is essential to 
good society. We see that much as it 
dei^ends on books, life is really the great 
thing it lias to do with. It is the passions, 
the interests, the relations, the absurdities 
of life that it fits us to see into, to taste, to 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


71 


discriminate. And I think we see, too, 
that not only is culture essential to good 
society, but good society also is essential 
to culture, and that there was therefore 
very good reason for the exclusiveness we 
began with. For in the first place, I ex- 
pect it requires certain natural advantages 
of position to look at and overlook life in 
that sympathetic and yet self-possessed 
way, which alone can give us a complete 
view of it. And in the next place, the 
more we discern in life, the more social 
polish shall we want to do justice to our 
discernment ; and not polish only, but 
those far subtler things, tone and balance 
as well. I think it was the late Lord 
Lytton who remarked ip. one of his books, 
what an offensive thing gaiety was sure to 
be in any woman except one of the most 
l^erfect breeding. So too with humour — 
the greater sense of humour a well-bred 
man has, the more delightful he is ; the 
greater sense of humour a vulgar man has, 
the more intolerable he is. ’ 

measure of Lady Ambrose’s assent 
was now almost complete. It remained, 
however, for Mrs. Sinclair to give the 
finishing touch. 

‘ I remember, ’ she said softly and regret- 
fully, ‘ a friend of mine — he was killed af- 
terwards, poor man, in a duel near Dres- 
den — who once, when he was down for 
some weeks in the country fishing, fell 
desperately in love with a certain rector’s 
daughter, who sang, and painted, and 
read German, and had a beautiful figure 
as well. The mother at once saw what was 
in the wind, and asked him directly to 
come and lunch at the rectory. And there 
three things happened. First, the mother 
began telling him what very superior so- 
ciety there was in the neighbouring local 
town. ‘‘In fact, its tone, ” she said, “is 
almost like that of a cathedral town.” 
Then the lovely daughter asked him if he 
was partial to boiled chicken ; and then, a 
little later on — it was this that quite fin- 
ished him, for the two first shocks he said 


he might have got over — in answer to some 
little common joke or other that he made, 
she told him, with a sort of arch smile — 
what do you think ? why, that he was 
saucy. ’ 

‘ I confess, ’ said Miss Merton, laughing, 
‘that it would take a very great deal of 
charm of some sort to make one get over 
that. At any rate, it’s a comfort to think 
that the young ladies in our new Republic 
won’t caU their admirers “ saucy.” ’ 

‘ Well, ’ said Laurence, ‘ and so we have 
got thus far — we have made our ideal so- 
ciety as highly bred, as highly educated, 
as polished, as sparkling, as graceful, as 
easy, as dignified, as we can possibly 
imagine it. And now, what next ?’ 

There was a moment’s pause. 

‘ What I should want in a Utopia, ’ Allen 
broke in abruptly, ‘ would be something 
definite for the people to do, each in his 
own walk of life. Wliat 1 should want 
would be some honest, definite, straight- 
forward, religious belief that we might all 
live by, and that would connect what we 
did and went through here with some- 
thing more important elsewhere. With- 
out this, to start with, ’ he said, half sadly 
and half coldly, ‘all life seems to me a 
mockery. ’ 

‘ And are you quite sure, ’ said Laurence, 
with a slight sigh, ‘ that it is not a mock- 
ery ?’ 

Mr. Luke here saw an opening for which 
he had long been waiting. 


CHAPTER III. 

‘My dear Laurence,’ Mr. Luke began, 
‘ of course human life is a mockery, if 
you leave out the one thing in it th^it is 
of real importance. And it is because you 
have done this, that Lord Allen thinks 
that culture is so little worth caring for, 
though I doubt, by the way, if he ex 
pressed quite accurately what I conclude 


72 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


liim to have meant. However,’ said Mr. 
Luke, clearing his throat, and looking 
round at the general company, ‘ wdiat Avas 
said about culture just now was j^erfectly 
right — jDerfectly right, and really capitally 
illustrated — as far as it w^ent. The only 
fault w^as that, as I say, the most import- 
ant point in the matter w^as entirely left 
out. It is quite true, that culture is, as 
!Mr. Laurence observed so hajDpily, the 



ing it a good taster. But a taster of Avhat ? 
Not otily of social absurdities, or love af- 
fairs, or beautiful scenery, but of morality, 
of righteousness, of Christianity. The 
really profound w^ork of culture is to make 
us judges of these — judges able to tell in 
an instant, real righteousness and real 
Christianity from pseudo-righteousness 
and pseudo-Christianity, so that w^e may 
sw^allow the true like the healing w^ater of 
life, and reject the false like a samjDle of 
bad claret — that we may have, in fact, just 
the same horror of any doctrine or dogma 
that is contrary to sweet reason (such, for 
instance,’ he said confidentially to Lady 
Grace, ‘as that of eternal punishment), 
that we have for young ladies wdio call 
their friends “saucy,” or for young la- 
dies’ mothers wdio look on a bishoj^’s 
IDalace as a focus of the most i)olite so- 
ciety. So I think, if you only all recog- 
nise this, that culture includes — in fact, 
essentially is — the discernment of true 
righteousness, of true morality, you need 
-none of you fear that to a really cultivated 
Society life will be in any danger of be- 
coming a mockery. ’ 

‘I was sorry,’ said Miss Merton, in a 
low tone to Laurence, ‘ to hear you say 
that just now, because I know you don’t 
mean it. ’ 

Laiirence, who had been sitting a little 
above her on the bank, moved quietly 
down, and placed himself at her side. 

‘ You make me feel ashamed of myself, ’ 
he said to her, ‘wLen you S23eak like this.’ 

Tliere was something in his manner 


wdiich a little embarrassed Miss Merton. 
She looked down, and said nothing for a 
moment ; and then, not having quite com- 
mand of her voice, she answ'ered him in a 
tone rather louder than she intended. 

‘ Well, ’ she said, ‘ and don’t you think 
that some definite faith or other is needed 
by the world ?’ 

‘Yes, /think so ; /think so. I entirely 
agree with Miss Merton, ’ exclaimed some- 
body. But it was not Laurence. To the 
suiq^rise of everyone, it was Mr. Saunders. 
All eyes w^ere turned on him. 

‘ Will you allow me, ’ he said, looking 
round him with a nervous eagerness, as 
though doubtful if he should gain a hear- 
ing, ‘wnll you allow me to make a few 
observations here — it wdll only take a mo- 
ment — to remind you of just a feiG things 
which I think ought not to be lost sight 
of? Well,’ Mr. Saunders went on, as he 
seemed to have secured the ear of the 
house, ‘in the first place as to history, 
just one word. The main use of history, 
'which Mr. Laurence forgot altogeth^to 
mention, is of course, as Comte has so well 
established, to teach us his philosophy of 
it — to show us, in other words, how en- 
tirely non compos mentis the world was till 
our time, and that it is only in the j^resent 
century that ^it has acquired the jjower 
ot passing a reasonable judgment. And 
next, as to facts ; mere facts, as facts, I 
think quite as useless as Mr. Laurence 
does, except for one reason. And that 
reason is the way in which from every side 
they confute, give the lie to, annihilate, 
the i^retensions of revealed religion, and 
of the myths which it calls its history. 
This, however, by the way. It w^as not 
the chief thing that I wanted to say to you. 
Now, you all,’ Mr. Saunders went on, 
holding U23 his forefinger and addressing 
the company, ‘ 2 ^ro 2 )ose to form a picture 
of what the world ought to be — what I 
suppose you ho23e it will be ; and you say, 
and very rightly, that the great secret is 
that it should appreciate properly the 


Td 


THE NEW : 

pleasures of human life. But, please mark j 
this, you have quite ignored the most im- ! 
portaiit thing of all — the vast change that 
all these pleasures are undergoing, that 
the whole aspect of life is undergoing, 
beneath the touch of modern thought and 
modern philosophy ; nay — and this indeed 
is the special point I want to lay stress 
upon — Mr. Luke just now even used those 
obsolete and misleading words, righteous- 
ness and morality, soiled by so many un - 1 
worthy associations. By the way,’ he ex- 
claimed, stopping suddenly and looking 
round him, ^ I sui3i)ose I may speak the 
truth freely, as I know well enough that 
all to^whom my vaticinations would be 
unwelcome are sure to mistake me for a 
Cassandra.’ 

‘ Mistake him for a wdiat ?’ said Lady 
xinibrose, in a loud undertone. 

‘ She was a beautiful young unfortu- 
nate,’ whispered Mrs. Sinclair, confiden- 
tially, ‘ who was betrayed by the- god 
xVpoilo. ’ 

Mr. Saunders was conscious he had 
raised a smile. He considered it a full 
licence to j^roceed. 

‘Well,’ he said, ‘as Miss Merton re- 
marked a moment ago, some definite faith 
is needed by the world ; and, as I now 
deliberately declare, some definite faith it 
will have — some one definite faith that will 
tolerate no dissent from it ; and it will 
have this before fifty years are over. ’ 

-r Everyone stared at Mr. Saunders, every- 
one except Mr. Luke, wdio simply smiled 
at the sky, and said, with an air of suj)- 
pressed pleasantry, ‘ I had imagined that 
our yDung friend’s motto was freedom.'' 

Mr. Saunders was nettled at this beyond 
description. With a vindictive quickness 
he fixed his eyes upon Mr. Luke. 

‘ Sight is free, ’ he said, uttering his 
words very slowly, as if each one Avere a ^ 
dagger in itself, and could give Mr. Luke 
a sejjarate smart ; ‘sight is free,’ he said, 

‘ and yet the sight of all healthy men, I 
conceive, is in agreement. It differs, I 


KEPUBLIG. 

i admit, when our eyes are dim with tears 
! of hysterical feeling ; or Avhen we are 
drunk ; or Avhen Ave are fighting — in this 
last case, Mr. Luke, I am told Ave are often 
visited with illuminations of a truly celes- 
tial radiance — but it is surely not such 
exceptional vision as this that you praise 
as free. And it is just the same,’ said Mr. 
Saunders triumphantly, ‘ Avith the mind. 
The minds of men Avill ne\"er have been so 
I free as on that not-distant day Avhen they 
shall all agree. And Avhat Avill that agree- 
ment result in ? Why, in the utter ban- 
ishment, the utter destruction — I knoAv no 
Avord strong enough to express my mean- 
ing — of all mystery and of all mysticism, 
and consequently of that supposed inscrut- 
able difference betAveen right and Avrong, 
Avhich has been made, in the hands of the 
priests, one of the most hideous engines 
of terror that Avere ever em23loyed to de- 
grade and crush mankind. Bight and 
Avrong, indeed ! Bighteousness and mo- 
rality ! There is something insidious in 
their very soun d. No — ‘ ‘ useful, ” “ health- 
ful,” “serviceable,” “jDleasant” — these 
Avill be the Avords of the future. Eman- 
cipated man Avill knoAV no Avrong, save 
unhealthiness and uiq^leasantness. That 
most treacherous handmaid of priestcraft, 
jjoetry, Avhich, x^rofessing to heighten the 
lights of life, did, in reality, only deeiDen 
its shadows, Avill delude him no longer — 
she Avill be gone — gone for eA^er. Science, 
the liberator of humanity, Avill have cast 
its light upon her ; and the lying vision 
will vanish. But Avhy do I talk of poetry ? 
Is not that, and every other evil — rever- 
ence, faith, mysticism, humility, and all 
the unclean company — comiDrised in this 
one Avord, Beligion ? Well, let religion — 
the ancien regime of the Avorld — retire, as 
it has done, to its Versailles, and fence 
; itself round for a little Avith Avith its mer- 
cenary soldiers ! The Paris of the Avorld 
is, at any rate, left free — and there the 
Bevolution of Humanity is begun. Sci- 
ence leads it, and in another fifty years 


74 


’The new republic. 


there will not be another religion left. 
Surelv most here must know this,’ con- 
tinued Mr. Saunders, ‘ although they may 
perhaps forget it sometimes. But the 
fact is notorious, and I really think ’ 

‘ Sir !’ 

Where did that sudden, solemn excla- 
mation come from — that single syllable at 
which the music of Mr. Saunders’s yoice, 
‘like a fountain’s sickening pulse,’ re- 
tired in a moment. Who had spoken ? 
The sound surprised eyerybody. It was 
Mr. Stockton — Mr. Stockton, with a face 
all aglow with feeling, beneath his i>ic- 
turesque wide-awake hat, and holding in 
his hand a white pocket-handkerchief bor- 
dered with pale blue. 

‘Perhai^s,’ he continued, looking slow- 
ly round him, ‘ I, as a man of science, who 
haye been a i^atient apprentice at my work 
for six-and-twenty years, may be allowed 
to gi'^e some opinion on this matter. Des- 
troy religion ! Destroy j)oetry !’ he ex- 
claimed, ill his rich, bell-like yoice, that 
was now resonant with an indignant mel- 
ancholy. ‘Will science destroy either of 
these precious and exquisite heritages of 
the human race ? Will it extinguish one 
23rofound, one ennobling, one deyout feel- 
ing ? Will it blight that rich culture on 
which the resent age so justly prides it- 
self ? I haye followed science for six-and- 
twenty years, I s^ieak therefore from ex- 
jierience ; and I boldly answer “No.” 
How indeed should it ? I knoAv, I de- 
jilore, and I trust also forgiye, the common 
notion that it does. But how can that 
notion haye arisen ? That is what puzzles 
me. Is not science essentially religious, 
essentially i)oetical — nay, does it not deejD- 
en quite boundlessly the religion and poe- 
try already existing in the world, and fuse 
the two together, as they were neyer fused 
before ? Does it narrow our notions of 
lii(f s wonder and dignity to jjeer into the 
abyss of being, and learn something of the 
marvellous laws of things — to discoyerthe 
^•.ame mysterious Something in a snow- 


flake, in the scent of a rose, in the “top- 
most star of unascended heayen,” and in 
some pra}"er or aspiration in the soul of 
man ? True it is that this wondrous All 
is Matter, and that all matter is atoms in 
its last analysis. No idle metaphysics 
haye clouded my brain, so I haye been 

able to see these things clearly ’ 

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ cried Mr. Saunders, 
recoyering himself, his voice tremulous 
with excitement, ‘ I know all that. I know 
that in their last analysis a pig and a mar- 
tyr, a 13 ray er and a beef-steak, are just the 
same — atoms and atomic movement. We, 
the younger generation of thinkers, accept 
all the premises you give us without a 
i^oment’s question. We only reason bold- 
ly and lionestly on them, and I defy you 
to prove — Mr. Stockton, sir, if you will 

only listen to me ’ 

But there w’as little chance of that. 
Interrupted only fora moment, and whilst 
Mr. Saunders was yet speaking, Mr. Stock- 
ton’s eloquence sw^ept on. 

‘Consider ourselves,’ he^said, ‘consider 
the race of men, and note the truly ce- 
lestial light that science throws on that. 
We have ascended,’ said Mr. Stockton ; 

‘ noble thought ! We have not descended. 
Wo are rising towards heaven, w^e have not 
fallen from it. Y^es — we, with attributes 
so like an angel’s, wdth understanding so 
like a God’s — to this height w e have al- 
ready risen. Who knows what future 
may not be in store for us ? And then,' 
on the other hand, wdien the aw^e-struck 
eye gazes, guided by science, through the 
“dark backward and abysm of time,” 
and sees that all that is has unfolded 
itself, unmoved and unbidden (astounding 
thought !) from a brainless, senseless, life- 
less gas — the cosmic vapour, as we call 
it — and that it may, for aught w^e know', 
one day return to it — I say, when we 
realise, when we truly make our ow n, this 
stupendous truth, must not our feelings,’ 
said Mr. Stockton, letting his eyes rest on 
Miss Merton’s with an appealing melan- 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


75 


clioly — ‘our feelings at such moments he 
religious ? Are they not Religion ?’ 

‘ But, ' said Miss Merton, ‘ there is notli- 
ing religious in a gas. I don’t see how 
anything religious can come out of it. ’ 

‘ Perfectly right !’ chuckled Mr. Saun- 
ders, faintly clapping his hands. ‘ Noth- 
ing can come out of the sack but what’s 
in it. Miss Merton’s perfectly right. ’ 

‘Ah, Miss Merton,’ Mr. Stockton con- 
tinued, ‘ don’t be frightened by the mere 
sound of the word matter. For who knows 
what matter is ’ — (‘Then, why talk about 
it ?’ shrilled Mr. Saunders, unheeded) — 
‘ that great Alpha and Omega of the Uni- 
verse ?’ Mr. Stockton went on. ‘ And 
don’t wrong me by thinking that I “palter 
with you in a double sense,” and that I am 
not using the>word religion in its truest, its 
l^rofoundest signification. Do you think. 
Miss Merton, for instance, that I cannot 
feel with you, when, stirred to your in- 
most soul by some strain of Mozart or 
Beethoven, you kneel before your sacri- 
ficial altar, wdiilst the acolyte exalts the 
Host, and murmur with bowed head your 
litany to your beautiful Virgin ? I say 
advisedly. Miss Merton, that I, as a man 
of science, can appreciate, and to a great 
extent share, your adoring — your adorable 
frame of mind. ’ 

Mr. Stockton paused. His acquaintance 
with Catholic ritual, and the fact of thus 
finding herself elected, without any merit 
of her own, as the sjDecial object of so great 
a man’s eloquence, produced in Miss Mer- 
ton an unfortunate sense of absurdity, and 
in another moment she was ‘conscious of 
nothing but a most inapprojDriate desire to 
laugh. She compromised with her facial 
muscles, however, and only gave a smile, 
which she trusted w^ould pass muster as 
one of grave enquiry. Mr. Stockton 
thought that it was so, and went on ; 
but, unknown to himself, he f^lt all the 
while that it was not so, and his enthusi- 
asm, he could not tell why, became some- 
what more polemical. 


‘Does science, then,’ he proceeded, 

‘ rob us of one iota of religious feeling, or 
degrade our notions of life’s measureless 
solemnity ? Nay, it is rather the flippant 
conceptions of theology that would do 
that, by connecting everything with an 
eternal Personality — a personality so de- 
graded as to have some connection with 
ourselves. The iDrayer of the theologian, 
“cabined, cribbed, confined” in spoken 
words, is directed to a Being that Science 
can make no room for, and would not 
want, if she could. The prayer of the 
man of science, for the most part of the 
silent sort, is directed wLither ? demands 
what ? He is silent if you ask him, for 
his answer would be beyond the reach of 
words. Even to hint at its nature, he 
would feel were a profanity. ’ 

‘ Do you know, Mr. Stockton,’ said Miss 
Merton, this time with a polite meekness, 

‘ all this rather bewilders me.’ 

‘ And so it does me, ’ said Mr. Stockton, 
much pleased w ith Miss Morton’s manner, 

‘ and this august bewilderment, which 
gives fulness and tone to our existence, 
but wdiich w^e can neither analyse nor 
comprehend — to me it comes in one shape; 
to youin another, and is — religion. In the 
name, then, of all genuine science, and of all 
serious scientific men, let man keep, I say,’ 
said Mr. Stockton, looking round him, 

‘ this precious and ennobling heritage — 
let him keep it and shape it ever anew, to 
meet his ever-changing and deepening 
needs. In my dream of the future I see 
religions not diminished, but multiplied, 
growing more and more richly diverse, as 
they sink deeper into individual souls. 
Surely, science, then, is not come to des- 
troy the past, but to fulfil it — and I confess 
I can myself see no better way of discov- 
ering what Av e desire in the future than by 
the charming analysis Mr. Laurence has 
been giving us of what we most admire in 
the present. ’ 

‘See,’ said Donald Gordon softly, ‘ here 


76 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


is science on the one side offering us all 
religions, and on the other none.’ 

‘ Heigho !’ sighed Mr. Luke, very loud; 
‘ let us agree about conduct first, and quar- 
rel about theology afterwards.’ 

‘Precisely,’ resumed Mr. Stockton, to 
Mr. Luke’s extreme annoyance — Mr. Luke 
himself having still much to say, and con- 
sidering that Mr. Stockton did but darken 
counsel by interrupting him — ‘Mr. Luke 
is jrerfectly' right.’ (‘I should like to 
know how you know that,’ thought Mr. 
Luke.) ‘Let us agree about conduct — 
morality, by the-by, is the i)laiuer word — 
that is the great thing. Let us agree 
about the noble and the beautiful. Let 
us agree heroically to follow truth — ay, 
truth ; let us follow that, I say, picking 
our way step by step, and not look where 
we are going. Let us follow — what can I 
add to this ? — the incomparable life of the 
great Founder of Christianity. Yes, Miss 
Merton, entertaining the views that I do, 
I say the incomparable life. Such is 
the message of science to the world ; such 
is the instinct of culture when enriched 
and quickened by science. ’ 

This was literally taking the bread but 
of Mr. Luke’s mouth. Not only was it 
repeating what he had said before, but it 
Avas anticii^ating, in a formless undisci- 
plined way, the very thing that he was go- 
ing to say again. And the man Avho had 
robbed him thus was a mere Philistine — a 
mere man of science, who Avas Avithout 
even a smattering of Greek oi: Hebrew, 
and Avho thought sensori-motor nerves and 
siiontaneous generation more important 
subjects than Marcion’s Gospel or the 
Psalms of DaAud. For once in his life 
Mr. Luke Avas for the moment comi^letely 
silenced. Laurence, hoAvever, someAV^hat 
soothed him, by replying to him, not to 
Mr. Stockton, 

‘ Yes, I belive I Avas wrong after all ; 
and that true culture Avill really prevent us 
from looking on life as a mere mockery. ’ 

Mr. Luke was going to have ansAvered ; 


but, Avorse even than Mr. Stockton’s, Mr. 
Saunders’s hated accents noAV got the 
st^rt of him. 

‘One Avord more,’ Mr. Saunders ex- 
claimed, ‘ one plain Avord if you Avill 
alloAV me. All this talk about Religion, 
Poetry, IMorality, implies this — or it im- 
l^lies nothing — the recognition of some 
elements of inscrutable mystery in our 
ILes and conduct ; and to every mystery, 
to all mystery, science is the SAvorn, the 
deadly foe. What she is daily more and 
more branding in to man’s consciousness 
is, that nothing is inscrutable that can 
l)ractically concern man. Use, pleasure, 
self-j^reservation — on these eA^ery thing de- 
pends ; on these rocks of ages are all rules 
of conduct founded : and noAV that Ave 
liaA^e dug doAvii to these foundations, what 
an. entirely changed fabric of life shall Ave 
build ui>on them. Right and AA'rong, I 
again say, are entirely misleading terms ; 
and the suiDerstition that sees an unfath- 
omable gulf yaAA’ning betAveen them is the 
great bar to all healthful progress.’ 

‘ And I say, on the contrary, ’ said Lau- 
rence, rei3lying A^ery suavely to Mr. Saun- 
ders’s vehemence, ‘ that it is on the recog- 
nition of this mysterious and unfathoma- 
ble gulf that the aa hole of the higher pleas- 
ures of life de2>end — and the higher vicious 
pleasures as much as, if not more than, 
the Aurtuous. ’ 

Lady Ambrose started at this. 

‘/am not vicious,’ said Mr. Saunders 
sna2)i)ishly. ‘ When I call j^leasure tlie 
one criterion of action, I am thinking of 
very different 2)leasures from Avhat you 
think I mean. ’ 

‘What is Mr. Saunders’s notion of the 
most 2)assionate 2)leasure ?’ said Mrs. Sin- 
clair bcAvitchingly. 

‘I agree Avith my great forerunner 
Hobbes,’ said Mr. Saunders, ‘that the 
strongest of all 2ffeasures are those arising 
from the gratification of curiosity ; and he 
is the real ethical 2^hiloso2)her Avho subor - 
dinates all other a2)petites to this, like Ba- 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


77 


con, who lost his life through i3nrsning a 
scientific experiment, or’ — he said pausing' 
to think of another exami}le — 

‘ Like Bluebeard’s wives?’ enquired Mrs. 
Sinclair naively. ‘ I’m afraid I never give 
my husband his highest pleasure ; for I 
never let him,’ she added in a regretful 
whi^i^er, ‘ open my letters, although I 
read all his. But, Mr. Saunders,’ slie 
said, ‘ if you are so fond of curiosity, you 
must have some mystery to excite it.’ 

‘ Yes, ’ said Mr. Saunders, ‘ but mystery 
is a fox for us to hunt and shoot ; not a 
God to hunt and shoot us. ’ 

‘Fancy,’ exclaimed Lady Ambrose in 
horror, ‘ shooting a fox ! what sacrilege !’ 

This remark, so entirely spontaneous, 
and so entirely unexpected, produced a 
general laugh, in which all joined but Mr. 
Saunders himself, and Mr. Herbert. 

‘ Well, ’ said Laurence at length, when 
the chorus had subsided, ‘ may I read a 
certain letter of my uncle’s to myself, 
which is printed in this very book I have 
here ? It was running in my mind just 
now, and is about the very matter we were 
speaking of — the connection, of religions, 
of Christian morality, Avith all the higher 
pleasures of life.’ 

‘Very 'good,’ said Mr. Saunders. ‘Read 
Avhat you please. I can only say that 1 1 
have at this moment in my j^ortmanteau 
an analysis I have made of all the Christ- 
ian moral sentiments, in Avhich I trace 
every one of them to such disgusting or 
paltry origins as shall at once rob them of 
all their pestilent prestige. I begin Avith 
the main root, the great first parent of all 
these eAuls, the conception of God, AAdiich 
I shoAV may liaA^e arisen in seventy -three 
different Avays, each one more common- 
13lace than the other. By-and-by, if you 
Avill not fear to confront the document, I 
Avill shoAV it to you. ’ 

Mr. Luke meauAvliile had seen his way 
to bringing Mr. Stockton’s true ignorance j 
home to him, and had been regretting to 
him, in tones of insidious confidence, that 


hardly enough stress had been laid just 
noAv on the necessity of really Avide read- 
ing — ‘ an intimacy,’ said Mr. Luke, ‘ Avith 
tlie great literatures of the Av^orld — a knoAV- 
ledge and comparison of the best tilings 
that have been said and thought, in all 
the various ages, on the great questions of 
life, Avithout which,’ he added, ‘as you 
and I know, that discrimination between 
right and wrong that we Av^ere speaking of 
just now, can never be anything more than 
a make-believe.’ Nor did Mr. Luke seem 
at all aAvare, as he Avas thus i^roceeding, 
that Laurence had found his place, and 
had already begun to read, as follows : 

‘ / gr(nr old, my dear Otho, I am 

coining to tldnlc over many things that 1 
have hitherto thonght too little (d)ont, and, 
amongst others, the great mystfn'y of Chris- 
tianity.'' 

At this point, however, Laurence and 
Mr. Luke were both interrupted by an 
entirely unforeseen event. 


CHAPTER lY. 

Laurence had just got to the end of 
I the first sentence, and Mr. Luke at the 
same time Avas just reminding Mr. KStock- 
ton Avitli some unction Iioav impossible it 
Avas for us to value properly that curious 
mixture of trumpery and elevation, the 
‘ Apocalypse’ of John, unless Ave compared 
it Avith a very kindred Avork, the ‘ Pastor’ 
of Hermas, when a servant startled Lau 
rence by announcing in his ear the arrival 
of the vicar of the parish. 

Everyone in dismay looked ; and there, 
standing a pace aAvay in the background, 
the stranger Avas. He was an old man, 
very tall and spare, Avith an ascetic as]iect, 
but Avitli a carriage dignified though slight- 
ly stooping, and Avitli severe, piercing- 
eyes. The sudden embarrassment, Iioav- 
eA’er, Avhich his apparition seemed to cause 


78 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


tlie party was reli?^’ecl somewhat by Lau- 
rence’s taking him aside as if for some i)ri- 
vate conversation, and also by another 
arrival of a far more genial nature — that of 
servants with tea, piles of strawberries, 
iced coffee, and champagne cui). Mr. 
Rose at once bought himself golden ojjin- 
ions af Lad^' Grace by helping her ])age, 
a pretty boy with light curling hair, to 
arrange some tumblers on the grass. Mr. 
Stockton felt his spirits suddenly rise, 
and began asking Lady Violet what she 
thought of their new Rei^ublic, as far as 
they had got Avith it. 

‘ I don’t knoAv,’ she ansAvered j^etulant- 
ly. ‘ As far as I can see, you Avant every- 
one to read a great many books and to 
have only one oi^inion. For my part, I 
hate iDeople avIio do the one, and a society 
that does the other.’ 

‘ What a charming girl Lady Violet is !’ 
said Mr. Stockton to Lady Grace, as he 
stood by the tea-table. * S}w7i j^enetration ! 
such vivacity ! such originality !’ 

‘ What beautiful sermons he does preach, 
to be sure !’ murmured Lady Ambrose. 

‘ Who ? Who ?’ inquired seA^eral voices. 

‘Why, Dr. Seydon,’ said Lady Ambrose. 
‘ Don’t you knoAV him ? HaA^e you noA'er 
heard him in London — the gentleman Avith 
Mr. Laurence ? See, he is coming back 
again to have some tea. ’ 

It Avas indeed but too true. Mr. Luke’s 
face in especial greAv very blank. Mr. 
Saunders clenched his fist — a small one. 

Dr. Seydon’s face, on the contrary, Avore 
Avhat for it Avas a really gracious smile. 
He Avas mindful of Iioav trpon his arrival 
he had overheard the Avords ‘ Apocalyj^se’ 
and ‘ mystery of Christianity.’ 

As Laurence introduced him into the 
circle Lady Ambrose at once claimed ac- 
(piaintance Avith him, and made room for 
him at her side. 

‘I am sorry,’ he said, looking round 
him Avith a singularly dignified, almost 
condescending courteousness, ‘ to disturb 
in this Avay your Sunday’s reading. But 


I can but stay a feAv moments. I shall 
not interrupt you long.’ 

‘We liaA^e been talking a good deal,’ 
said Laurence, ‘about the signs of the 
times. ’ 

‘And,’ said Lady Ambrose eagerly, feel- 
ing herself near a friend, ‘ about all this 
Avicked infidelity and irreligion that-is so 
much about in the Avorld now. ’ 

‘Ah, yes,’ said Dr. Seydon sloAAdy, and 
Avith a sudden froAvn, ‘it is true, unhajD- 
pily, that there is, or has been, much of 
that in our century. But Avhat remains 
is confined, I imagine (and that is sad 
enough, God knoAvs) to the half educated 
artisans in our large towns, Avhom the 
Church in former years, alas ! relaxed her 
hold on. For I fear I cannot deny that 
Ave, in this matter, are not Avholly guiltless. 
The Church, Ave may depend upon it, has 
much to ansAver for. ’ 

‘ Perfectly true, my dear sir ! perfectly 
true,’ exclaimed Mr. Luke, Avho could 
neA^er resist assenting to this sentiment. 

Dr. Seydon darted a quick glance at Mr. 
Luke, as if he Avere anything but pleased 
at finding himself so readily agreed Avith. 

‘But,’ he Avent on, ‘matters are fast as- 
suming a more satisfactory appearance ; 
and the great advance made in true educa- 
tion, and the liberal spirit this brings Avith 
it, cannot fail to lead to that great change 
in our j^osition that Ave so much desiderate. ’ 
‘Quite so, ’ said Mr. Luke. ‘ The true 

reading of ecclesiastical history ’ 

‘Ah !’ exclaimed Dr. Seydon, holding 
u,p his forefinger, ‘ exactly so. You have 
hit upon the right thing there.’ (‘Good 
gracious !’ thought Mr. Luke, astounded 
at this patronising compliment, ‘ I should 
think I had.’) ‘Could we but get both 
the i)arties, ’ Dr. Seydon went on, address- 
ing Mr. Luke across Lady Ambrose, ‘ to 
understand fairly the history of the im- 
portant era, the matter Avould, I think, be 
as good as settled. You see,’ he said, 
turning to Lady Ambrose, ‘ if the Easterns 
Avill merely face steadily the in’egnant fact 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


79 


that Michael Cerulariiis, in his first letter 
to Leo IX., in 1053, took absolutely no 
excejjtion to any one i^oint in Western 
doctrine, but sim;^ly to certain secondary 
points of discipline, they will see that the 
gulf that separates us is very slight when 
viewed by the clearer light of modern 
thought. I think,’ he added, ‘ that I saw 
Lady Ambrose’s name amongst the sub- 
scribers to the Eastern Church Union As- 
sociation. ’ 

‘ Oh yes,’ said Lady Ambrose, ‘ certain- 
ly. I do so wish that some union could 
be brought about. Eor the Greek Church, 
you know, certainly have the Apostolical 
Succession ; and then, if we were only 
joined with them, the Koman Catholics 
could never deny our orders — not,’ she 
added, with a most cordial smile to Dr. 
Seydon, ‘that I don’t myself believe im- 
plicitly in them, as it is. ’ 

A rapid frown gathered itself on Dr. 
Seydon’s brow. 

‘ The denial of them, ’ he said severely, 
‘hurts the Eomanists far more than it 
does us. As to the Greeks, what I was 
going to say was this. Let them just cast 
their eyes back so far as the tenth century, 
and they will see — and pray mark this, all 
of you,’ he said, holding up his forefinger, 
and shaking it several times, ‘ for this is 
very important — I say the Greeks will see, 
unless they are determined to close their 
eyes, that at the time of the great rupture 
with the West, they did actually acknow- 
ledge the entire soundness of our confes- 
sion of faith ; the main j)oint they objec- 
ted to, and which they thought fitground 
then for separation, being that the West- 
ern Church did not sing Alleluiah in Lent, 
and that it used in the Lord’s Supper 
unleavened bread, which, Nicetas Poctor- 
atus contended in an elaborate treatise, 
W’as dead bread, and could not therefore 
be either supersubstantial or consubstan- 
tial to us. It has been the fault of the 
Easterns, in fact, to be ever-subtle, and to 
fall into those excesses of human wisdom 


whicn are foolishness with God. Isaac 
the Armenian, for instance, wu'ote a book 
to prove his countrymen in heresy for 
twenty-nine different reasons, of wiiicli 
the tw^o most important are these — that 
they did not blow on baptised persons y and 
that they made their consecrated oils of 
rapeseed and not of olives. But tw^o 
causes seem to me to be now working to- 
gether, under God, to put the Easterns 
into a more becoming spirit, and to make 
them more heartily willing to join us. 
These are — I have mentioned them in the 
third volume of my “History of the 
Filioque Clause” — first, that the genuine 
Greek blood is becoming daily more adul- 
terated, and the Greek intellect losing 
therefore its old subtlety ; and secondly, 
that the political disturbance that now’ 
seems imminent in the East, will distract 
them from abusing such subtlety as they 
still possess. We shall therefore meet on 
the broad ground of our fundamental 
agreements ; and once let the moral influ- 
ence of the tw^o churches, the Greek and 
English, be mutually augmented by an 
open union, in another five years, I imag- 
ine, we shall have heard the last of infidel- 
ity, in England at least, or indeed of Eo- 
manism either.’ 

‘ Now’, that’s the sort of man, ’ said Lady 
Ambrose, as soon as Dr. Seydon had de- 
parted, ‘ that I should like to have for my 
clergyman in our new Eepublic.’ 

‘ Seydon, ’ exclaimed Mr. Luke, ‘ so that 
is he, is it ? I thought I remembered that 
face of his. Of course — I remember now’, 
seeing that his college had given this liv- 
ing to him. ’ 

‘ It w’as he, ’ said Laurence to Miss Mer- 
ton, ‘ who; some years ago, x>revented Dr. 
Jenkinson being made a bishop, w hich he 
said, though it might be a comi^liment to 
learning, would be a grievous insult to 
God.’ 

‘ And so. Lady Ambrose, ’ said Mr. 
Stockton,’ you w’ould like Dr. Seydon for 
a clergyman ! Well, in our ideal society 


80 


THE NEY\" EEPUBLIC. 


yon would be able to have any clergyman 
yon chose — any religion yon chose — any 
which most satisfied yonr own conscience.’ 

‘ Oh, very well,’ said Lady Ambrose, ‘ if 
it wotild not interfei'e witli one's religion 
in any way, I think all this cnltnre and 
enlightenment most delightfnh’ 

‘It will bind ns to nothing,’ said Mr. 
Stockton, ‘ except to a recognition of no- 
bleness, of morality, of poetry. What 
Mr. Lanrence has ofiered to read to ns is 
an account of how all of these are bonnd 
np in religion in my sense of the word.’ 

‘ Come, Mr. Lanrence, ’ said Lady Am- 
brose, ‘ please go on. It is wonderful, ’ 
she added in a solemn wdiisper, ‘ how even 
bad men, like old Mr. Lanrence, know at 
heart how it is really best to be good, and 
to believe in true religion. ’ 

‘A. 9 I grow old, my dear Otho,^ Lanrence 
again began to read, ‘ I (mi coming io tlwik 
over many things that I have liiilmdo tliovght 
too little about, and, amongst others, the great 
mystery of Christianity. I am coming to 
see that, from a too supe^fcial way of look- 
ing at it, I have done this religion a gross 
injustice, and have blindly failed to recognise 
how much of all that ire hold most x)vecious in 
life is dependent on its severe and unbending 
syshmis of theology and morals. It xrill per- 
haps strike you that it is rather late in the 
day for me to pay my tribute to these, now 
that the world at large is theoretically denying 
the former of them, and is practically for- 
getting the latter. But it is this very fact that 
iuduces me to speak out — the growing licence 
and the grotring scepticism of modern society. 
I wish to raise my voice against the present 
state (f things, and to warn the world that if 
it goes on much longei' as it is going on now, 
it will soon have irrmnediiddy ruined all the 
fuel' (did more piipiant flavours of life, and 
that soon there will be actually nothing left to 
(jive rational zest to this poor pitiful existence 
(f ours. 

‘ You know what an admirer I have (d- 
ways been, in numy ways, (f the ancients, 
and how, in many ways, I think modefmi 


I civilisation barbarous, as compared with 
I theirs. I have not changed this opinion. 
I have only come lately to undei'stand what 
it means. The charm of ancient life lies 
mainly in its form. In essence, the life open 
to us is, as I fully see note, infinitely supe- 
rior. And to u'hat is this superiority due? 
Simply to Christianity. It came with CJuds- 
tianity, and it will cdso go with it. 

(wi not mad, Otho. Listen to me a 
\ little longer, my boy, and you unit see my 
I meaning. 

j ‘ To begin, then — just consider the one 
I matter of humour. Compare the ancient 
i humourists with the modeim. Think for 
I a moment (f Lucian, (f Aristoplumes, of 
I Plautus, of Petronius, of Horace; then think 
I of Erasmus, Sudft, Cervantes, Voltaire, 
Sterne. Does not the mere menuwy of the 
iu'o sets of names bring home io you what a 
gulf in this matter there is between the ancient 
world and the modern ? Is not the modern 
humour an cdtogether different thing from 
the ancient — broader and deepen' beyond com- 
parison or measurement? The humour of 
the ancients could raise a laugh ; true — that 
is just what it could raise, and a laugh cotdd 
express cdl the feelings raised by it. Think 
of the intolerable vulgarity of HomeYs gods, 
who laughed consumedly^' at Vulcan, as he 
loaited on them, — why? because he was lame. 
The sense of humour on Olympus ivas about 
equcd to ivh(tt it would he now in a country 
l(fwye7'\s parlour. Think of Horace, who 
saw in a didl pun on two proper names, a 
joke so excelled that he wrote a whole satire 
in honour of it. It is true tlud Juvemd 
showed a somewhat finer sense, when he said 
that when Fortune was pleased to be faceti- 
ous, she made a nonvean riche ; Petrcmius, 
perhaps, was even in advance of Juvenal. 
\B(d ancient humour at its best was a shallow 
I thing. It meant little. It was like the bright 
I sparkle on a brawling stream, Imrdly ankle- 
deep. But our modeim humour is like the 
! silent sn(di(^-like lights in a still water, that 
go coiling down into depths unfathomable, as 
it lures our thoughts onwai'ds to the contem- 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


81 


plation of endle^is issuefi. The twinUe in 
the ei/ea of a Sterne or a Cervantes seems to 
hint to us of FAeusinian mysteries with a 
triumphant solemn treachery; and loaJces 
our sotds^ as we catch it^ into a sudden thrill 
of delicious^ furtive insight. Such humour 
as this may excite laughtwi' ; hut no laughter 
can ease our feelings fully — they also demand 
tears ; and even tears are not enough for us. 
Of such humour as this the ancients had 
hardly a notion ; it differs from theirs as the 
man differs from the In (by, and seems almost 
like a new sense y peculiar to the modern 
world. 

‘ NoWy to what is this development of hu- 
mour due — this new and excpdsite source of 
pleasure? Simply, as you must see, if you 
look into the matter, to that much maligned 
thing, Christianity, and that marvellous sys- 
tem of moral laws and restraints, which, 
(itthorujli accredited through imposture, elabo- 
rated by barbarism, and received by credu- 
lity, has entirely changed the whole complexion 
of life. Think how it has done this. It has 
slowly permeated and penetrated all man's 
innef)' existence. It has given him new un- 
earthly aims; it has given him new un- 
earthly standards by which to measure every 
action. It has cunningly associated every- 
thuig with the most awful or the most glittei'- 
ing conceptions with which the imagination 
can scare or intoxicate itself — with Hell, 
Heaven, Judgment, and so forth: and thus 
there is scarcely a single choice or ref usal 
that has been left indifferent, and not more 
or less nearly connected with the most stu- 
pendous issues. The infinitely beautiful, 
the infinitely terrible, the infinitely hateful, 
meet us everywhere. Everything is enchant- 
ed, and seems to be what it is not. The 
.enchantment quite deludes the vulgar ; it a 
little deludes the wise ; but the wise are for 
ever in various ways secretly undoing the 
spell, and getting glimpses of things as they 
really are. What a delight these glimpses 
are to those that get them ! Here lies the 
sense of humour — in the detection ^of truth 
through rev&t'ed and reigning falsehood . — 
6 


Think of the colloquies of Erasmus, and his 
Laus Stultitke — there is an instance for you. 
Think of Don Quixote — there is ^another. 
All its humour is due to Christian dreams of 
honour, duty and chivalry. Who, again, 
would have cared for Swift's showing us 
that m((n w(ts fateful, if Christ had not be- 
witched us into thinking that man was love- 
able ? Gulliver owes its point to the Gospels. 
Sleryie sees everything big with infinite 
jest." But why? Because Christianity has 
made evei'ything big also with infinite solem- 
nity. A possible moral meaning is secreted 
over the whole surface of life, like the scented 
oil in the cells on the surface of an orange 
skin. The humourist catches the perfume of 
these volatile oils, as they are crushed out and 
wasted by our every action. 

‘ Think, too, by the way, of the kindred 
subject of wit. I was reading a play of 
Congreve's yestei'day : and this made me 
reflect how nearly all the brightest wit of 
the modem world coiisists in showing us this 
one thing — that fidelity in marriage is ri- 
diculous ; that is, in showing us what, but 
for Christianity, no one woidd ever have 
doubted. Such wit is, as itpve^'e, the for- 
bidden kiss we give to common sense, from 
which an angry religion has been bent on 
separating us, 

‘ Think, too, of that flower of Christian 
civilisation, the innuendo. That is simply 
the adroit saying under difficidties of what, 
but for Christianity, eve^'yeme would have 
taken for granted. 

‘ Here, then, you see, are the wit, the 
innuendo, the humour of tJie world, all ow- 
ing their existence, cu', at any rate, their 
flavour, to Christianity. And what would 
life, what would convei'sation be toithout 
these ? But it is not these only that we owe 
to the same source. All our finer pleasures 
are indebted for their chief taste to it likewise. 
Love in itself, for instance, is, as everyone 
knows who has felt it, the coarsest and most 
foolish of all our feelings. Leave it free to 
do what it pleases, and we soon cease to 
care what it does. But Christianity, with 


82 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


a miraculous ingenuity^ has coufined and 
cramped it into so grotesque and painful a 
posture, and set suck vigilant giufrdians to 
keep it there, that any return to its natia'al 
freedom is a nq^ture, an adventure, and a 
triumph, ichich none hut the wisest and most 
skilful can compass with grace or safety, and 
which loise men, thei'efore, think worth com- 
jxfssing. It is indeed the same with all the 
natural and true pleasures of life — poor taste- 
less things not worth living for, in themselves; 
but they have been so hidden away from us, 
(Old have ccnne to be in such bad odour with 
the world, that only the wisest— for wlsdxmi 
is but the detection of. falsehood — see that they 
may be taken, and have the courage to take 
them; and the wisdom they are conscious 
of in doing this, forms a delicious sauce 
piquante — (of which humour, wit, and so 
oti, are some of the flavours) — to these same 
p(xyr pleas U7'es, that can give us a real zest 
for them, % 

‘ Such a life of wisdom is, of course, only 
for the few. The wise must always be few, 
as the rich must. The poor must make fine 
food for the rich to eat. The fools must 
make fine follies for the wise to detect. We 
cannot xill be happy hi a 7'aiional way. It is 
at least best that some of us should be. B ut 
what I want to point out to you, my boy, is, 
that if society goes on as it is going on now, 
nobody will be able soon to be rationally hap- 
py at all. It is true that I do not 7 tow live 
much hi the wo7'ld; but I have sufficient 
means of seeing the cou7'se it is taking. I, 
like Hamlet, have hea7'd of its *f)((intings,” 
how it jigs and ambles and lisps, and 7iick- 
luanes God's ci'eattms." I know how fast 
all Ch7'istian moral sentiment is silently dy- 
ing out of it. Indeed, so 7uqyid do I imagine 
to be the 7vay hi which it is losing all p7'oper 
feeling, that I should 7iot be sm'prised wei'e 
society in another five years, if I am not 
dead by that thne, to receive me back again. 
Now, as long as Christuniity was fiimily 
fixed as a faith, we might a7nuse oui'selves 
by qffendhig against its morals as 7nuch as 
we liked; for our acts we7'e in 710 danger of 


losing their foihidden character. The 7 'e 
would always be a pex'secution, under which 
pleasui'e 7night thrive. But now, since 
faith is dead, 7ve have only the 7noral senti- 
7nents left to us ; and if ice once get 7'id of 
these by a too 7'eckless violation of them, the 
whole wo7'k of Christianity, which I have 
been trying to explain to you, will be undone. 
Wit and humour, love and poetry, will all 
alike have left us. Life will have lost its 
seasonings and its sauces : and served up 
to tis an naturel, it will o)dy nauseate us. 
Man, indeed, ivill then be oiily separated 
f7'om the axihnals by his capacity for ouiui. 

‘ I had once hoped that the 7niddle classes — 
that vast and useless body, who haxe iieither 
the skill that p7'oduces their wealth, 7ior the 
taste that can, enjoy it — might have p7'oved 
themselves at least of so7ne use, by p7'eserving 
the traditio7is of a sound, respectable 7no- 
7'ality ; that they might have kept alive the 
nation's poiver of being shocked and scan- 
dalised at u'it, or grace, or f7'eedo7n. But 
710 ; they too a7'e changed. With au'kwai'd 
halting gait they a7'e waddling in the foot- 
steps of their bette7'S, and they 'will soon have 
made vice as vulgctr as they long ago 7nade 
vh'tue. 

‘ To me, of cou7'se, all this matte7's little. 
Such flavours as life has, have lasted 7ne 
thus far; 7ior xoill the woi'ld's gx'owing 
blankness affect me. I shall xiever look it do 
a xvo7natt's eyes again. One of my own is 
blind 7iou\ and the other is so dim that I 
doubt if the best-paid beauty could contrive 
to look into it xoith xnore than an ironical 
tenderness. All this matters xiothing to me. 
But you, my boy — tchat icill be left for you, 
wlieti I (1711 taken away froxn the evil that is 
to come? Your qwospect does not seemi to 
one a cheeofxd one. But alas ! I can offer oio 
o'emedy. I can oidy beguile my time by 
'wai'idng you. At any nde, it is alt cays 
good to think a little about the o'oots (f things: ^ 
so I trust you will be in so7ne uuty p7'ofited by 
these patrufe verbora lingua3. ’ 

When Laurence closed the book, there 
was a silence of some moments, as if no 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


83 


one knew exactly how to take what had 
just been read. But at last Donald Gor- 
don exclaimed, in his devoutest of soft 
whispers : ‘ Is Saul also among the proph- 
ets ?’ The words acted like a spell ; the 
ice was broken, and Mr. Herbert, who 
hitherto had hardly uttered a syllable the 
whole afternoon, now broke out suddenly 
in his most emphatic accent. 

‘Thank you, my dear Laurence,’ he 
exclaimed ; ‘thank you much, indeed. 
There is something in what you have just 
read us that seems to me quite precious 
and peculiar. Nor do I find any such 
honesty in any creed sung by priests in 
churclies, as I do in this sardonic con- 
fession of that great truth, which the 
l)resent age as a Avhole is resolutely bent 
111)011 forgetting — that the grand know- 
ledge for a man to know is the essential 
and eternal difference between right and 
wrong, betw^een base and noble ; that 
there is a right and a noble to be striven 
for, not for the sake of its consequences, 
but in spite of them ; and that it is this 
fact alone wdiich, under countless forms, 
is the one thing affirmed in all human art 
and implied in all serviceable learning. 
Your Cervantes smiles it to you ; your 
8wift curses it to you ; your Bernard of 
Morlaix hymns it to you ; your saddened 
Shakespeare tells it to you in every way. 
Strange indeed is it, and mournful, that 
w e see a time when the one truth that w^e 
live and die by not only needs to be 
pointed out to us, but asserted passion- 
ately in the teeth of Those w horn w^e have 
elected as our wisest teachers. ’ Mr. 
Saunders at once took this to be a special 
allusion to himself, and his face involun- 
tarily began' to array itself in a smile of 
triumx)h. ‘How^ever,’ Mr. Herbert went 
on benignantly, ‘ you have truly gone the 
right w^ay to work in constructing an ideal 
society; if you make it recognise this be- 
fore all things, and see how wdtness is 
borne to it by every pleasure and every 
interest of life. ’ 


‘ xlli, yes, ’ exclaimed Mr. Stockton, ‘ it 
' is just this noble discrimination between 
right and wu'ong, Mr. Herbert, that mod- 
’ ern enlightenment will so preeminently 
j encourage and foster. Morality is quite 
indispensable to any dream of the future, 
j And as to religion — the motto of the fu- 
I ture is freedom — holy, awful, individual 
I freedom. We shall each be free to choose 
I or evolve the religion most profoundly 
suited to us.’ 

‘ Well,’ said Lady x\mbrose, ‘ as long as 
’I may kee^j my own religion, I shall be 
(piite satisffed ; and about other people, I 
, really don’t think I’m bigoted — not as 
I long, you know% as they belong to some 
I church. But relUjion is the thing I w^ant. 
j Of course w e 7)^)^^^Olave morality. Mustn’t 
w^e ?’ she added, w ith a half-23uzzled ex- 
2 )ression,' turning to Lady Grace, 
i ‘ Must !’ sighed Mrs. Sinclair. ‘ It’s 
very easy to say m ust. ’ 

1 ‘ Of course w^e must, ’ said Lady Grace, 

cheerfully. ‘My dear,’ she went on, with 
a little kindly laugh tow^ards Mr. Saun- 
ders, ‘ lie doesn’t really doubt it. ’ 

Mr. Saunders S27rang to his feet as if an 
adder had stung him. 

‘ What !’ he exclaimed, standing in the 
centre of the grou23, and looking round 
him, ‘ and do I not really doubt that the 
degrading 2 )i’-^ctice of 2 ^i’ayer, the fetish- 
w^orshi2) of celibacy, of mortiffcation, and 
so forth — do I not doubt that the foul 
faith in a future life, the grotesque con- 
I ceq^tions of the theological virtues, and 
that pre 2 )osterous idol of the market- 2 )lace, 
the sanctity of marriage, — do you think I 
do not really doubt that w e must retain 
; these ? Do you think, on the contrary, I 
I do not know^ that they are already doomed V 
I However,’ here Mr. Saunders 2 )aused sud- 
denly aiid again sat dowui on the grass, 

‘ there is no need for me at this moment 
to d^troy any cherished illusions ; though 
I shall be ha2>23y to show my analysis of 
cheni that I s23oke about just now* to any- 
one who is not afraid to ins23ect it. I hear 


84 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


niiieli saiil about tolerance, as a charac- 
teristic of your society. All I ask is, that 
you have the courage to extend your tol-^ 
erance to me. Your new Eepublic may 
be full of illusions then. The great labor 
of destroying them will be j^ositively de- 
licious to me.’ 

‘ Well, ’ said Mr. Stockton, with a mix- 
ture of deference and jjatroiiage, ‘ and 
what does Miss Merton think T 

‘Oh,’ said IMiss Merton with a slow 
smile, ‘ I am all in favour of toleration. 
I think that what I consider truth is quite 
good enough to stand on its own merits, 
if unj^rejudicecl eyes can only be got to 
see them. And T honestly do think, that 
with really high-breeding, and with what 
we apparently mean by culture, we should 
have at least one jjart of the world as good 
as we could witli it. But yet, ’ she added, 
hesitating a little, ‘ we have surely settled 
only half the question yet. We have said 
a good deal about this wide and discern- 
ing taste that is to guide us. We have 
not said much yet about the particular 
things — the occupations, the duties, the 
jdeasures, that it will lead us to choose.’ 

‘No,’ began Mr. Bose, ‘ I should like 
myself very much to say something as to 
that — as to the new i^leasures that modern 
culture has made possible for us. ’ 

‘ Suppose — ’ said Lady Ambrose, with 
one of her most beaming smiles, as she 
pushed her hat away over the back of her 
head, ‘suppose we talk of this by-and- 
by — at dinner, or in the evening. Let us 
just enjoy a little now. The air now is so 
truly delicious. It seems quite like a sin, 
doesn’t it, to tliink of going in to dinner 
by-and-by . ’ 

A happy thought struck Lady Grace. 

‘ Supi^ose we have dinner out of doors. 


Otho, ’ she said, ‘ in the pavilion with the 
roses round it that j^ou used to call the 
summer dining-room. ’ 

This proposal was received with what 
Avas little short of rapture. ‘ That really 
Avould be too delightful !’ exclaimed Lady 
ilmbrose. ‘ And Avhat place could sound 
more perfect for us to tinish our new Be- 
public in !’ It was arranged accordingly. 

‘ And now, ’ exclaimed Lady Ambrose to 
Laurence confidentially, as the conversa- 
tion ceased to be general, ‘ I Avant you to 
let me have a look at that book of your 
uncle’s. I have often heard it si:)oken 
about. Lord Heartpool had a copy, Avhich 
he shoAved my j^oor father in Paris. Como, 
Mr. Laurence, you need not hold it back. 
I’m sure there’s nothing in it that Avordd 
do me any harm.’ 

‘Well — no,’ said Laurence; ‘in this 
volume I don’t think there is.’ 

‘ Because what you read just now,’ said 
Lady Ambrose, ‘ Avas all really in favour 
of goodness, though it is true I didn’t 
quite like the tone of some of it. ’ 

‘ ^Tiat, ’ interposed Mr. Bose, ‘ is there 
another volume ? I should much like to 
see that.’ 

‘I declare, Mr. Laurence,’ said Lady 
Ambrose, Avho had noAv got the book in 
her hand, ‘ here’s something really quite 
pretty — at least, I’ve only got as far as the 
first verse yet. It’s a little poem called 
“ To the Wife of on old Schoolfellou'd'’ ’ 

‘ Bead it out to us — do, ’ said Laurence, 
Avith a soft smile. ‘ It Avill illustrate very 
Avell the letter Ave had justnoAV.’ 

‘Do you knoAv, I really think I might 
manage this, ’ she said, ‘ although I’m not 
in the least by Avay of being a reader out. 
Listen, then, and please don’t laugh at 
me. ’ 


Let others seek for wisdom's way 
In modern science, modern wit , — 

I turn to love, for all that these. 

These two can teach, is taught hy it. 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


85 


Tes, {(11. Id ilutl first hour loe met 
Add smiled ciud spoke so soft add long, love. 
Did wisdom dawn; add I began 

To disbelieve in right and wrong, love. 

Then, as love's gospel dearer grew. 

And I each dag your doorstep trod, love, 

I learned that love was all in all. 

And rose to disbelieve in God, love. 


Fes, UHsdoan's book ! you taught me this. 

And ere I half had read y(ju through, love, 
I learned a deeper un'sdom yet — 

I learned to disbelieve in you, love. 

/Sr> now, fair teacher, I am ^lnse, 

And free : 'tis truth that makes us free, love. 
But you — you're pale ! grow wise as I, 

And learn to disbelieve in me. love. 


As Lady Ambrose had read on, her 
voice had grown more and more disajJ- 
proving, and several times she liad shown 
symptoms of being on the point of stop- 
ping. 

‘ I’ve no doubt it’s all very witty,’ she 
said, putting down the book, which was 
eagerly caught up by Mr. Bose, ‘but — 
blit that sort of thing, you know,’ she 
exclaimed at last, ‘ I think is rather better 
in the smoking-room. However, I saw 
something next to tliose verses, that I 
think would suit Miss Merton. It seemed 
to be a sort of address to the Virgin 
Mary.’ 

Miss Merton looked a little embarrass- 
ed ; Laurence looked astonished. 


‘ Let me read it, ’ exclaimed Mr. Bose, 
rapidly turning over the pages. .,‘This 
must be what Lady Ambrose means, I 
think 

My own, my one desire, 

Virgin most fair.' 

‘ Yes, ’ said Lady Ambrose, ‘ that’s it. ’ 
‘Oh,’, said Laurence, ‘that is not my 
uncle’s ; it is mine. It is the earliest copy 
of verses I ever wrote. I was seventeen 
then, and by an odd freak my uncle print- 
ed them in the end of his own collection. ’ 
Miss Merton’s embarrassment in a great 
measure disappeared. She looked inter- 
ested ; and Mr. Bose, in slow, suave tones 
went on to read : — 


Aline own, my one desire, 

Virgin most fair 
Of all the virgin choir! 

Hail, 0 most pure, most perfect, loveliest one! 

Lo, id my hand I bear. 

Woven for the circling of thy long gold hair, 

Culled leaves and flowers, from jylaces which the sun 
The spring long shines upon, 


86 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


Whei'P, ne,vfn' s^heplierd hath driven flock to graze^ 

Nor any grass is moini ; 

But the^'e sound tkrougli all the sunny sweet warm days 
Mid the green holy place^ 

The wild bee's wings alone. 

Yea, and with jealous care 
The maiden Reverence tends the fair things tliei'e, 
And wateretli all of them with sprinkling shotceo's 
Of pearled grey dew from a clear running river. 
Whoso is chaste of spirit utterly, 

May gatlier there the leaves and fruits and flo}cers — 
Tlfe unchaste, never. 

But thou, 0 goddess, and dearest love of mine — 

( I don’t at all approve of this,’ murmured Lady Ambrose.) 

Take, and about thine hair 
This anadem entwine — 

Take, and for my sake loear. 

Who am more to thee than other mortals are. 

Whose is the holy lot 

As friend with friend to walk and^ talk with thee, 
Hearing thy sweet mouth's music in mine ear. 

But thee beholding not."^ 


‘All, they are sweet verses,’ said Mr. 
Hose ; ‘ a little too ascetic, perhaps, to be 
(piite Greek. They are from Euripides, 
I see — the address to Artemis of Hipjio- 
ly tus. ’ 

‘Yes,’ said Laurence; ‘I don’t think I 
ever wrote any original i)oetry. ’ 

‘It’s exactly like Mr. Laurence — that 
bit,’ Avhispered Mrs. Sinclair. 

‘And now,’ said Mr. Hose, ‘as I sup- 
jiose we shall ere long be all going to 
dress for dinner^ I will go, Mr. Laurence, 
if you will let me, and examine that other 
volume you spoke of, of your uncle’s Mis- 
cellanies. ’ 

Mr. Hose moved slowly away ; and as 
he did so, there came the sound of the 
distant dressing-bell, whi(di warned the 


whole party that it was time to be follow- 
ing his example. 


BOOK IV. 

CHAPTEB I. 

No prox>osal could have been happier 
than Lady Grace’s, of the garden banquet 
in the pavilion. It seemed to the guests, 
when they were all assembled there, that 
the lovely summer’s day was going to close 
with a scene from fairyland. The table 
itself, with its flower, and glowing fruit, 
and its many-coloured Yenetian glass, 
shone and gleamed and sparkled, in the 
evening light, that was turning outside to 
a cool mellow amber ; and above, from the 
roof, in which the dusk was already dark- 
ness, hung lamps, in the shaj^e of green and 


Eur. Hipp. v. G9 85. 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


87 


purple grape-clusters, looking like lumin- 
ous fruit stolen from Aladdin’s garden. 
Tlie pavilion, ojDen on all sides, was sup- 
ported on marble pillars, that were almost 
hidden in red and white roses. Behind, 
the eye rested on great tree-trunks, and 
glades of rich foliage ; and before, it would 
l^ass over turf and flowers, till it reached 
the sea beyond, on which, in another hour, 
the faint silver of the moonlight would be- 
gin to tremble. 

There was something in the whole scene 
that was at once calming and exhilarating, 
and nearly all present seerned to feel in 
some measure this double effect of it. Dr. 
Jenkinson had been quite restored by an 
afternoon’s nap ; and his face was now all 
a-t winkle with a fresh benignity, that had 
howevei% like an early spring morning, 
just a faint susi^icion of frost in it. Mr. 
Storks even was less severe than usual ; 
and as he raised his champagne to his lips, 
he would at times look very nearly con- 
versational. 

‘My dear Laurence,’ exclaimed Mr. 
Herbert, ‘ it really almost seems as if your 
visions of the afternoon had come true, 
and that we actually were in your new 
Republic already. I can only say that, if 
it is at all like this, it will be an entirely 
charming j)lace — too charming, perhaps. 
But now, remember this — ^you have but 
half got through the business to which 
you first addressed yourselves — that of 
forming a picture of a perfect aristocracy 
— an aristocracy in the true and genuine 
sense of the word. You are all to have 
(uilture, or taste. Very good, you have 
talked a great deal about that, and you 
have seen what you mean by it ; and you 
have recognised, above all, that it includes 
a discrimination between right and wrong. 
But now, you with all this taste and cul- 
ture — you gifted men and women of the 
nineteenth century, — what sort of things 
does your taste teach you to reach ou" 
towards ? In what actions and aims, in 


what affections and emotions, would you 
l^lace your happiness ? That is what I 
want to hear — the practical manifestations 
of this culture. ’ 

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Rose, ‘ I have at this mo- 
ment a series of essays in the press, which 
would go far towards answering these 
questions of yours. They do, indeed, 
deal with just this — the effect of the 
choicer culture of this century on the 
soul of man — the ways in which it endows 
him with new perceptions — how it has 
made him, in fact, a being altogether more 
highly organized. All I regret is, that 
these choicer souls, these are 

as yet like flowers that have not found a 
climate in which they can thrive properly. 
That mental climate will doubtless come 
with time. What we have been trying to 
do this afternoon is, I imagine, nothing 
more than to anticipate it in imagination.* 

‘Well,’ said Mr. Herbert, Avitli a little 
the tone of an inquisitor, ‘ that is just what 
I have been asking. What will this cli- 
mate be like, and what will these flowers 
be like in this climate ? How would your 
culture alter and better the present, if its 
powers were equal to its wishes ?’ 

Mr. Rose’s soft lulling tone harmonised 
well with the scene and hour, and the 
whole party seemed willing to listen to 
him ; or at any rate no one felt any 
prompting to interrui3t him. 

‘ I can show you an example, Mr. Her- 
bert,’ he said, ‘of culture demanding a 
finer climate, in — if you will excuse my 
seeming egoism — in myself. For instance, 
(to take the widest matter I can fix upon — • 
the general outward surroundings of our 
lives), often, when I walk about London, 
and see how hideous its whole external 
aspect is, and what a dissonant population, 
throng it, a chill feeling of despair comes 
over me. Consider how the human eye 
delights in form and colour, and the ear 
in tempered and harmonious sounds ; and 
then think for a moment of a London 


88 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


street ! Think of the shapeless houses, 
the forest of ghastly chimney -j^ots, of the 
hell of distracting noises made hy the carts, 
the ciibs, the carriages — think of the bust- i 
ling, commonplace, careworn crowds that 
jostle you — think of an omnibus — think of 
a four-wheeler ’ 

‘ I often ride in an omnibus,’ said Lord 
Allen, with a slight smile to Miss Merton, 

‘ It is true, ’ replied Mr. Rose, only over- 
hearing the tone in which these words 
were said, ‘ that one may ever and again 
catch some touch of sunlight that will for 
a moment make the meanest object beau- 
tiful with its furtive alchemy. But that is 
Nature’s work, not man’s ; and we must 
never confound the accidental beauty that 
Nature will bestow on man’s work, even at 
its worst, with the rational and designed 
beauty of man’s work at its best. It is 
this rational human beauty that I say our 
modeim city life is so completely wanting 
in ; nay, the look of out-of-door London 
seems literally to stifle the very power of 
imagining such beauty possible. Indeed, 
as I wander along our streets, pushing my 
way among the throngs of faces — faces 
puckered with misdirected thought, or ex- 
pressionless with none — barbarous faces 
set towards Parliament, or Church, or sci- 
entific lecture-rooms, or Government offi- 
ces, or counting-houses — I say, as I j)nsh 
my way anv^ngst all the sights and sounds 
of the streets of our great city, only one 
thing ever catches my eye, that breaks in 
upon my mood, and warns me I need not 
despair. ’ 

‘ And what is that ?’ asked Allen with 
some curiosity. 

‘The shops,’ Mr. Rose answered, ‘of 
certain of our upholsterers and dealers in 
works of art. Their windows, as I look 
into them, act like a sudden charm on me 
— ^like a splash of cold water dashed on my 
forehead when I am fainting. For I seem 
there to have got a glimpse of the real 
heart of things ; and as my eyes rest on 
the perfect pattern (many of which arc 


really quite delicious ; indeed, when I g ) 
to ugly houses, I often take a scrai3 ol 
some artistic cretonne with me in my pock- 
iet as a kind of aesthetic smelling salts), I 
say, when I look in at their windows, and 
my eyes rest on the perfect pattern of some 
new fabric for a chair or for a window- 
curtain, or on some new design for a wall- 
pa23er, or on some old china vase, I be- 
come at once shaiqdy conscious, IMr. Her- 
bert, that, desjDite the ungenial mental 
climate of the jiresent age strange yearn- 
ings for, and knowledge of, true beauty, 
are beginning to show themselves like 
flowers above the weedy soil ; and I re- 
member, amidst the roar and clatter of 
our streets, and the mad noises of our own 
times, that there is amongst us a growing 
mumber who have deliberately turned their 
backs on all these things, and have thrown 
their whole souls and symjiathies into the 
hapjiier art-ages of the jiast. They have 
gone back,’ said Mr. Rose, raising his 
voice a little, ‘ to Athens and to Italy, to 
the Italy of Leo and to the Athens of Per- 
icles. To such men the clamour, the in- 
terests, the struggles of our own times, 
become as meaningless as they really are. 
To them the boyhood of Bathyllus is of 
more moment than the manhood of Na- 
jioleon. Borgia is a more familiar name 
than Bismarck. I know, indeed — and I 
really do not blame them — several distin- 
guished artists who, resolving to make 
their whole lives consistently j^erfect, will, 
on jjrincii^le, never admit a news 2 )ai)er 
into their houses that is of later date than 
the times of Addison ; and I have good 
trust that the number of such men is on 
the increase — men I mean,’ said Mr. Rose, 
toying tenderly with an exquisite wine- 
glass of Salviati’s, ‘ who with a steady and 
set 2 :uiiq^ose follow art for the sake of art, 
beauty for the sake of beauty, love h)r the 
sake of love, life for the sake of life.’ 

Mr. Rose’s slow gentle voice, which was 
apt at certain times to become 2 )eculiarly 
irritating, sounded now like the evening 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


89 


air grown articulate, and had secured him 
hitherto a tranquil hearing, as if by a kind 
of sixill. This however seemed here in 
sudden danger of snapping. 

‘ What, Mr. Rose !’ exclaimed Lady Am- 
brose, ‘ do you mean to say, then, that the 
number of people is on the increase who 
won’t read the newspapers ?’ 

‘ Why, the men must be absolute idiots!’ 
said Lady Grace, shaking her grey curls, 
and putting on her spectacles to look at 
Mr. Rose. 

Mr. Rose however was imperturbable. 

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘you may have 
newspajiers if you will : I myself always 
have them ; though in general they are 
too full of public events to be of much in- 
terest. I was merely s^ieaking just now 
of the spirit of the movement. And of 
that we must all of us here have some 
knowledge. We must all of us have 
friends whose houses more or less embody 
it. And even if we had not, we could not 
help seeing signs of it — signs of how true 
and earnest it is, in the enormous sums 
that are now given for really good objects. ’ 

‘That,’ said Lady Grace, wfth some 
tartness, ‘ is true enough, thank God !’ 

‘But I can’t see,’ said Lady Ambrose, 
whose name often figured in the Times, 
in the subscription-lists of advertised char- 
ities — ‘ I can’t see, Mr.^Rose, any reason 
in that why we should not read the news- 
paxiers. ’ 

‘ The other day, for instance,’ said Mr. 
Rose reflectively, ‘ I heard of eight Chelsea 
shex^herdesses, x^ickod ux)by a dealer, I 
really forget where — in some common cot- 
tage, if I recollect aright, covered with 
dirt, giving no x^leasure to anyone — and 
these were all sold in a single day, and 
not one of them fetched less than two 
hundred and twenty i^ounds. ’ 

‘ I can’t help thinking they must have 
come from Cremorne,’ said Mrs. Sinclair 
softly. 

‘But why,’ said Mr. Rose, ‘should I 
sx^cak of instances ? We viiisl 


all of us have friends whose houses are 
full of priceless treasures such as these — 
the whole atmosphere of whose rooms 
seem. impregnated with art — seems in fact, 
Mr. Herbert, such an atmosx^here as we 
should dream of for our new Rex^ublic.’ 

‘ To be sure,’ exclaimed Lady Ambrose, 
feeling that she had at last got ux^on solid 
ground. ‘ By the way, Mr. Rose, ’ she 
said, with her most gracious of smiles, ‘ I 
supx^ose you have hardly seen Lady Julia 
Hayman’s new house in Belgrave Square ? 
I’m sure that Avould delight you. I should 
like to take you there some day, and show 
it to you. ’ 

‘ I have seen it, ’ said Mr. Rose, with lan- 
guid condescension. ‘ It was very x>rdtty, 
I thought — some of it really quite nice. ’ 

This and the slight rudeness of manner 
it was said with, raised Mr. Rose greatly 
in Lady Ambrose’s estimation, and she 
began to think with resxeect of his late ut- 
terances. 

‘Well, Mr. Herbert, Mr. Rose went on, 

‘ what I want to say it this. We have here 
in the present age, as it is, fragments of 
of the right thing. We have a number 
of isolated right interiors ; we have a few, 
very few right exteriors. But in our ideal 
state, our entire city — our London — the 
metropolis of our society, would be as 
a whole as perfect as these fragments. 
Taste would not there be merely an in- 
door thing. It would be written visibly 
for all to look ux3on, -in our streets, our 
squares, our gardens. Could Ave only 
mould England to our wishes, the thing 
to do, I am x^ersuaded, Avould bo to reiiiovo 
London to some kindlier site, that it 
might there be altogether born ancAv. I 
myself Avould have it taken to the south- 
Avest, and to the sea-coast, Avhere the Avaves 
are blue, and Avhere the air is calm and line, 
and there ’ 

‘Ah me 1’ sighed Mr. Luke Avith a lofty 
sadness, ‘cvelum non iodinam muiansd 

‘Pardon me,’ said Mr. Rose, ‘few par- 
adoxes — and most x^^^i'J-^doxes are false — 


90 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


are, I think, so false as that. This much 
at least of sea-like man’s mind has, that 
scarcely anything so distinctly gives a tone 
to it as the colour of the skies he lives 
under. And I wa,s going to say,’ he went 
on, looking out dreamily towards the even- 
ing waves, ‘that as the imagination is a 
(^uick workman, I can at this moment see 
our metropolis already transplanted and 
rebuilt. I seem to see it now as it were 
from a distance, with its palaces, its mu- 
seums, its churches, its convents, its gar- 
dens, its 2)icture-galleries — a cluster of 
domed and pillared marble, sparkling on 
a gray headland. It is Home, it is Athens, 
it is Florence, arisen and come to life 
again, in these modern days. The aloe- 
tree of beauty again blossoms there, under 
the azure stainless sky. ’ 

‘Do you know, Mr. Rose,’ said Lady 
Ambrose in her most cordial manner, ‘ all 
this is very beautiful ; and certainly no 
one can think London as it is more ugly 
than I do. That’s natural in me, isn’t it, 
being a denizen of jioor j)rosaic South 
Audley Street as I am ? But don’t you 
think that your notion is — it’s very beauti- 
ful, I quite feel that — but don’t you think 
it is i^erhaps a little too dream-like — too 
unreal, if you know what I mean ?’ 

‘ Such a city, ’ said Mr. Rose earnestly, 
‘is indeed a dream, but it is a dream 
which we might make a reality, would cir- 
cumstances only permit of it. We have 
many amongst us who know what is beau- 
tiful, and who jjassionately desire it ; and 
would others only be led by these, it is quite 
conceivable that we might some day have a 
capital, the entire as2)ect of which should 
be the visible embodiment of our finest 
and most varied culture, our most sensi- 
tive taste, and our deepest esthetic meas- 
ure of things. This is what this capital 
of our new Republic must be, this dwell- 
ing-place of our ideal society. We shall 
have houses, galleries, streets, theatres, 
such as Giulio Romano or Giorgio Vasari, 
or Giulio Campi would have rejoiced to 


look at ; we shall have metal-work worthy 
of the hand of Ghiberti and the praise of 
Michel Angelo ; we shall rival Domenico 
Beccafumi with our pavements. As you 
wander through our thoroughfares and 
our gardens, your feelings Avill not be jar- 
red by the presence of human vulgarity, 
or the desolating noise of traffic ; nor in 
every spare space will your eyes be caught 
by abominable advertisements of excur- 
sion trains to Brighton, or of Horniman’s 
cheap tea. They will rest instead, here 
on an exquisite fountain, here on a statue, 
here on a bust of Zeus or Hermes or 
Aphrodite, glimmering in a laurelled nook; 
or on a Mater Bolorom looking down on 
you from her holy shrine ; or on the carv- 
ed marble gate-posts of our palace gar- 
dens, or on their wrought bronze gates ; 
or perhaps on such triumphal arches as 
that which Antonio San Gallo constructed 
in honoui*'of Charles Y., and of which you 
must all remember the description given 
by Vasari. Such a city,’ said Mr. Rose, 

‘ would be the externalisation of the hu- 
man spirit in the highest state of devel- 
opment that we can conceive for it. We 
should there see expressed openly all our 
apiDreciations of all the beauty that we can 
detect in the world’s whole history. The 
wind of the spirit that breathed there 
would blow to us from all the places of 
the past, and be charged with inlinite 
odours. Every frieze on our walls, every 
clustered capital of a marble column, 
would be a garland or nosegay of associa- 
tions. Indeed, our whole city, as com- 
pared with tlie London that is now, would 
be itself a nosegay as compared with a 
faggot ; and as related to the life that I 
would see lived in it, it would be like a 
sliell murmuring with all the world’s 
memories, and held to the ear of the two 
twins. Life and Love.’ 

Mr. Rose had got so dreamy by this 
time that 'he felt himself the necessity of 
turning a little more matter-of-fact again. 

‘ You will see what I mean, plainly 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


9] 


enough,’ he said, ‘if you will just think of 
our architecture, and consider how that 

naturally will be ’ 

‘ Yes, ’ said Mr. Luke, ‘ I should be glad 
to hear about our architecture.’ 

‘ — How that naturally will be,’ Mr. 
Bose went on, ‘ of no style in particular. ’ 
‘ The deuce it won’t !’ exclaimed Mr. 
Luke. 

‘No,’ continued Mr. Bose, unmoved; 

‘ no style in particular, but a renaissance 
of all styles. It will matter nothing to us 
whether they be pagan or Catholic, classic- 
al or medifeval. We shall be quite with- 
out prejudice or bigotry. To the eye of 
true taste, an Aquinas in his cell before a 
crucifix, or a Narcissus gazing at himself 
in a still fountain, are — in their own \Yays, 
you know — equally beautiful. ’ 

‘Well, really,’ said Miss Merton, ‘I can 
not fancy St. Thomas being a very taking- 
object to people who don’t believe in him 
either as a saint or a philosopher. I al- 
ways think that, exce23t from a Christian 
point of view, a saint can be hardly better 
described than by Newman’s lines, as — 

A bundle of bones, whose breath 
Infects the world before his death.’ * 


‘I remember the lines well,’ said Mr. 
Bose calmly, ‘and the writer you men- 
tion puts them in the mouth of a yelping 
devil. But devils, as far as I know, are 
not generally — except, j^erhajis, Milton’s — 
conspicuous for taste : indeed, if we may 
trust Goethe, the very touch of a fiower 
is torture to them. ’ 

‘Dante’s biggest devil,’ cried Mr. Saun- 
ders, to everyone’s amazement, ‘chewed 
Judas Iscariot like a quid of tobacco, to 
all eternity. He, at any rate, knew what 
he liked. ’ 

Mr. Bose started, and visited Mr. Saun- 
ders with a rajud frown. He then j^ro- 
ceeded, turning again to Miss Merton as 
if nothing had hapjoened. 

‘ Let me rather, ’ he said, ‘ read a nice 
sonnet to you, which I had sent to me 
this morning, and which was in my mind 
just now. These lines ’ — Mr. Bose here 
jn-oduced a pa 2 )er from his jDocket — ‘ were 
written by a boy of eighteen — a youth of 
extraordinary promise, I think, whose ed- 
ucation I may myself claim to have had 
some share in directing. Listen,’ he said, 
laying the verses before him, on a clean 
plate. 


Three visions in the watches of one night 
Made sweet my sleep — almost too sweet to tell. 

One was Narcissus hy a woodside welh 
And on the moss his limbs and feet were white; 
And one, Queen Venus, blown for my delight 
Across the blue sea in a rosy shell; 

And one, a lean Aquinai^ in his cell. 

Kneeling, his pen in hand, with aching sight 
Strained towards a carven Christ; and of these three 
I knew not which was fairest. First I turned 
Towards that soft boy, irho laughed and fled from me ; 
Towards Venus then; and she smiled once, and she 
Fled also. Then with teeming heart I yearned, 

0 Angel of the Schools, towards Christ with thee! 


Yes,’ murmured Mr. Bose to himself, 
folding up the paper ; • ‘ they are dear 


lines'. Now, there,’ he said, ‘we have a 
true and tender ex 2 )ression of the really 
Catholic S 2 )irit of modern aestheticism, 
which holds nothing common or unclean. 


Vide J. H. Newman’s Dream of Gerontius. 


12 THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


It is in this spirit, I say, that the archi- 
tects of our state will set to work. Ami 
thus for our houses, for our picture-gal- 
leries, for our churches — I trust we shall 
have many churches — they will select and 
combine ’ 

‘Do you seriously mean,’ broke in Al- 
len, a little imj^atiently, * that it is a thing 
to wush for and to look forward to, that 
we should abandon all attempts at origi- 
nal architecture, and content ourselves 
'with simply si^onging on the past ?’ 

‘I do,’ rex)lied Mr. Eose suavely ; ‘ and 
for this reason, if for no other, that the 
world can now successfully do nothing 
else. Nor, indeed, is it to be expected or 
even wished that it should. ’ 

‘ You say w'e have no good architecture 
now !’ exclaimed Lady • Ambrose : ‘ but, 
Mr. Eose, have you forgotten our modern 
churches ? Don’t you thiidi them beau- 
tiful ? Perhaps you never go to All 
Saints’ ?’ 

‘I every now and then,’ said Mr. Eose, 
‘ when I am in the weary mood for it, at- 
tend the services of our English Eitualists, 
and I admire their churches very much 
indeed. In some ijlaces the whole thing 
is really managed with suri)rising skill. 
The dim religious twilight, fragrant with 
the smoke of incense ; the tangled roofs 
that the music seems to cling to ; the 
talkers, the high altar, and the strange 
intonation of the i)riests, all x)roduce a 
curious old-world effect, and seem to unite 
one with things that have been long dead. 
Indeed, it all seems to me far more a j^art 
of the i^ast than the services of the Catho- 
lics. ’ 

Lady Ambrose did not exj^ress her ai^- 
X^robation of the last x^art of this senti- 
ment, out of regard for Miss Merton ; but 
she gave a smile and a nod of x^leased in- 
telligence to Mr. Eose. 

‘ Yes, ’ Mr. Eose went on, ‘ there is a re- 
gretful insincerity about it all, that is very 
nice, and that at once ax)X)eals to me, 
“ Cr7eic*4 einar alien ludkverklmifjen Saged'* 


The x^i’iests arc only half in earnest ; the 
congregations even ’ 

Then I am quite sure,’ interrupted Lady 
Ambrose with vigour, ‘ that you can never 
have heard Mr. Cox)e preach.’ 

‘ I don’t know,’ said Mr. Eose languidly. 

‘ I never enquired, nor have I ever heard 
anyone so much as mention, the names of 
any of them. Now all that. Lady Am- 
brose, were life really in the state it should 
be, you would be able to keep. ’ 

‘ Do you seriously, and in sober earnest, 
mean,’ Allen again broke in, ‘that you 
think it a good thing that all our art and 
architecture should be borrowed and in- 
sincere, and that our very religion should 
be nothing but a dilettante memory ?’ 

‘The Qpinion,’ said Mr. Eose, ‘which 
by the way you slightly misrepresent, is 
not mine only, but that of all those of our 
own day who are really devoting them- 
selves to art for its own sake. I will try 
to exx)lain the reason of this. In the world’s 
life, just as in the life of a man, there are 
certain x^eriods of eager and all-absorbing 
action, and these are followed by x^eriods 
of memory and reflection. We then look 
back ux^on our x^ast, and bec6me for the 
first time conscious of what we are, and of 
what we have done. We then see the 
dignity of toil, and the grand results of 
it, the beauty and the strength of faith, 
and the fervent x^^wer of x^^l^i’iotism ; 
which, whilst we laboured, and believed, 
and loved, we were quite blind to. Ux^on 
such a reflective x^oriod has the world now 
entered. It has acted and believed al- 
ready ; its task now is to learn to value 
action and belief — to feel and to be thrilled 
at the beauty of them. And the chief 
means by which it can learn this is art — 
the art of a renaissance. For by the x>ower 
of such art, all that was beautiful, strong, 
heroic, or tender in the x^^-st — all the ac- 
tions, x^af^'Sions, faitlis, asx)irations of the 
world, that lie so many fathoms deex^ in 
the years — float ux^wards to the tranquil 
surface of the x>resent, and make our lives 


THE NEW TvEPUBLTC. 


93 


like wliat seems to me one of the loveliest 
things in nature, tiie iridescent film on tlie 
face of a stagnant water. Yes ; tlie x^ast is 
not dead niTless we cl loose that it shall he 
so. Christianity itself is not dead. There 
is “nothing of it that doth fade,” hnt 
turns “ into something rich and strange,” 
for ns to give a new tone to onr lives with. 
And, believe me,’ Mr. Ptoso went on, gath- 
ering earnestness, ‘ that the haxii^iness 
X^ossible in snch conscious x^oriods is the 
only true hax) iciness. Indeed, the active 
periods of the world were not really hax^x^J 
at all. We only fancy them to have been 
so by a x^athetic fallacy. Is the hero hax)- 
X)y during his heroism ? No, but after it, 
when he sees \vhat his heroism was, and 
rfjads the glory of it in the eyes of yonth 
or maiden.’ 

‘ All this is very x^oor stnll — very x>oor 
stuff,’ murmured Dr. Jenkinson, whose 
face had become gradually the very x^ic- 
ture of crossness. 

‘Do you mean, Mr. Eose,’ said Miss 
Merton, with a half humorous, half in- 
credulous smile, ‘ that we never value 
religion till we have come to think it 
nonsense ?’ 

‘ Not nonsense — no,’ exclaimed Mr. Eose 
in gentle horror ; ‘ I only mean that it 
never lights our lives so beautifully as 
when it is leaving them like the evening 
sun. It is in snch x^^'i’iods of the Avorld’s 
life that art sx)rings into being in its great- 
est sx^lendonr. Your Eax'ihael , Miss Merton, 
Avho x^ainted you your “ dear Madonnas,” 
Avas a luminous cloud in the sunset sky of 
the Eenaissance, — a cloud that took its fire 
from a faith that Avas sunk or sinking.’ 

‘I’m afraid that the faith is not quite 
sunk yet,’ said Miss Merton, Avith a slight 
sudden flush in her cheeks, and Avitli just 
the faintest touch of sux3X^i'c^ssed anger. 

Mr. Saunders, Mr. Storks, Mr. Stock- 
ton and Mr. Luke all raised their eye- 
broAvs. 

‘No,’ said Mr. Eose, ‘ such cyclic sun- 
sets are hap inly axff to linger. ’ 


‘i\[r. Eose,’ exclaimed Lady Ambrose, 
Avith her most gracious of smiles, ‘of 
course everyone Avho has ears must knoAV 
that all this is A^ery beautiful, but I am 
XiositiA^ely so stuxAid that I haven’t been 
quite able to folloAV it all.’ 

‘ I Avill try to make my meaning clearer,’ 
he said, in a brisker tone. ‘ I often figure 
to m^^self an unconscious x^oriod and a 
conscious one, as tAVO Avomen — one an un- 
tamed creature Avith embroAvned limbs na- 
tive to the air and the sea ; the other mar- 
ble-AA’hite and sAA’an-soft, couched delicate- 
ly on cushions before a mirror, and AA^atch- 
ing her OAvn sux^xhe reflection gleaming in 
the dexAths of it. On the one is the sun- 
shine and the sea-sxiray. The Avind of 
Heaven and her unbound hair are 
mates. The light of the sky is in her 
eyes ; on her lix^is is a free laughter. We 
look at her, and Ave knoAV that she is liax^- 
X^y. We knoAv it, mark me ; but she knoAvs 
it not. Turn, lioAveA^er, to the other, and 
all is changed. OutAvardly, there is no 
gladness there. Her dark, gleaming eyes 
ox3en dexitli AAnthin dex^th uxAon us, like 
the circles of a neAV Inferno. There is a 
clear, shadoAvy x^allor on her cheek. Only 
her lips are scarlet. There is a sadness — 
a languor, even in the grave tendrils of 
her hair, and in each changing curve of 
her bosom as she breathes or sighs. ’ 

‘ What a very odd man Mr. Eose is !’ 
said Lady Ambrose in a loud AvhisxAer. 

‘ He alAvays seems to talk of CA^erybody as 
if they had no clothes on. And does he 
mean by this that Ave ought to be ahvays 
in the dumxAS ?’ 

‘Yes,’ Mr. Eose Avas meauAvhile x>i’o- 
ceediiig, his voice again groAving vision- 
ary, ‘ there is no eagerness, no action there; 
and yet all eagerness, all action is knoAvn 
to her as the Avriting on an open scroll ; 
only, as she reads, eA^en in the reading of 
it, action turns into emotion, and eager- 
ness into a sighing memory. Yet such a 
Avoman really may stand symbolically for 
us as the lady of all 


9 i 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


gladness, who makes us glad in the only 
'vvay now left us. And not only in the 
on]}" way, hut the best way — the way of 
ways. Pier secret is self-consciousness. 
She knows that she is fair ; she knows, 
too, that she is sad ; but she sees that sad- 
ness is lovely, and so sadness turns to joy. 
Such a woman may be taken as a symbol, 
not of our architecture only, but of all the 
jesthetic surroundings with which we shall 
shelter and express our life. Such a wom- 
an do I see whenever I enter a ritualistic 
church ’ 

‘ I know,’ said Mrs. Sinclair, ‘that very | 
l)ecu]iar 2^eople do goto such x^laces ; but 
Mr. Rose,’ she said with a look of ai:)2)eal- 
ing enquiry, ‘ I thought they were gen- 
erally rather over-dressed than other- 
wise ?’ 

‘ The imagination,’ said Mr. Rose, open- 
ing his eyes in grave wonder at Mrs. Sin- 
clair, ‘may give her what garb it chooses. 
Our whole city, then — the city of our new 
Re2)ublic — will be in keeping with this 
s2)irit. It will be the architectural and 
decorative embodiment of the most ed- 
ucated longings of our own times after 
order and loveliness and delight, whether 
of the senses or the imagination. It will 
be, as it were, a resurrection of the 2)ast, 
in res2^onse to the longing and the 2^as- 
sionate regret of the 2n’esent. It will be 
such a resurrection as took 2>lace in Italy 
during its greatest e2)Och, only with this 
difference ’ 

‘ You seem to have forgotten trade and 
business altogether,’ said Dr. Jenkinson. 

‘ I think, however rich you intend to be, 
you will find that they are necessary.’ 

‘Yes, JMr. Rose, you're not going to 
de2)rive us of all our sho 25 s, I ]io 23 e ?’ said 
Lady Ambrose. 

‘Because, you know,’ said Mrs. Sinclair, 
with a soft maliciousness, ‘we can’t go 
without dresses •Itogethcr, Mr. Rose. 
And if I were there,’ she continued 2)]aint- 
iv(‘ly, ‘ I should want a bookseller to 2>ub- 
lish the scra2)s of verse — poetry, as I 


am 2 )leased to call it — that I am always 
writing. ’ 

‘ Pooh !’ said Mr. Rose, a little annoyed, 
‘we shall have all that somewhere, of 
course ; but it will be out of the way, in 
a sort of Pirieus, where the necessary 
yjxTzrjXoc ' 

‘ A sort of what ?’ said Lady Ambrose. 

‘Mr. Rose merely means,’ said Donald 
Gordon, ‘ that there must be good folding- 
doors between the offices and the house of 
life ; and that the servants are not to 
be seen walking about in the 2^1^asure- 
I grounds.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Mr. Rose, ‘ exactly so.’ 

‘Well, then,’ said Lady Ambrose, ‘I 
quite agree with you, Mr. Rose ; and if 
wishing were only having, I’ve not the 
least doubt that we should all of us be 
going back to Mr. Rose’s city to-morrow, 
instead of to London, with its carts, and 
cabs, and smoke, and all its thousand- 
and-one drawbacks. I’m sure,’ she said, 
turning to Miss Merton, ‘ you would, my 
dear, with all your taste. ’ 

‘ It certainly , ’ said Miss Merton, smil- 
ing, ‘ all sounds very beautiful. All I am 
afraid of is that we should not be quite 
worthy of it. ’ 

‘Nay,’ said Mr. Rose, ‘but the very 
2)oint is that we shall be worthy of it, and 
that it will be worthy of us. I said, if you 
recollect, just now, that the Avorld’s ideal 
of the future must resemble in many ways 
its memory of the Italian Renaissance. 
But don’t let that mislead you. It may 
resemble that, but it will be something 
far in advance of it. During the last three 
hundred years — in fact, during the last 
sixty or seventy years, the soul of man 
lias develo2>ed strangely in its sentiments 
and its 2K)Avers of feeling ; in its 2^owers, 
in fact, of enjoying life. As I said, I have 
a work in the 2)i*ess, devoted entirely to a 
descri2)tion of this growth. I have some 
of the 2 >i’<>of sheets with me ; and if you 
will let me I should like to read you one 
or two paasages.’ 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


95 


‘ I don’t tliink mucli can be made out of 
that,’ said Hr. Jenkinson, with a vin- 
dictive sweetness. ‘ Human sentiment 
dresses itself in different fashions, as hu- 
man ladies do ; but I think beneath the 
surface it is much the same. I mean,’ 
he added, suddenly recollecting that he 
might thus seem to be rooting u}) the 
wheat of his own ojjinions along Avith the 
tares of Mr. Rose’s, ‘ I mean that I don’t 
think in seventy years, or even in three 
hundred, you Avill be able to show that 
human nature has very much changed. I 
don’t think so. ’ 

Unfortunately, however, the Doctor 
found that, instead of i^utting down Mr. 
Rose by this, he had only raised uj^ Mr. 
Luke. 

‘ Ah, Jenkinson, I think you are wrong 
there,’ said Mr. Luke. ‘As long as Ave 
recognise that this groAvth is at present | 
confined to a very small minority, the fact 
of such growth is the most imijortant, the 
most significant of all facts. Indeed, our 
friend Mr. Rose is quite right thus far, in 
the stress he lays on o^ir ai3preciation of 
the past, that Ave have certainly in these 
modern times acquired a neAV sense, by 
Avhich alone the i^ast can be apj)reciated 
truly, the sense Avhich, if I may invent a 
phrase for it, I should call that of His- 
torical Perspective ; so that now really for 
the first time the landscape of history is 
beginning to liaA^e some intelligible charm 
for us. And this, you knoAV, is not all. 
Our Avhole vioAv of things — (you, Jenkin- 
son, must knoAv this as Avell as I do) — the 
Zeitgeist breathes upon them, and they do 
not die ; but they are changed — they are 
enlightened. ’ 

The Doctor Avas too much annoyed to 
make any audible answer to this ; but he 
murmured Avith some emphasis to him- 
self, ‘ That’s not Avhat Mr. Rose Avas say- 
ing ; that’s not Avhat I Avas contradicting. ’ 

‘You take, Luke, a rather more rose- 
coloured view of things than you did last 
night,’ said Mr. Storks. 


‘No,’ said Mr. Luke, with a sigh, ‘far 
from it. I am not denying (pray, Jenkin- 
son, remember this) that the majority of 
us are at i^resent either Barl)arians or 
Philistines ; and the ugliness of these is 
more glaring noAV than at any former 
time. But that any of us are able to see 
them thus distinctly in their true colours, 
itself shoAvs that there must be a deal of 
light someAvhere. E\^en to make darkness 
visible some light is needed. We should 
alAvays recollect that. We are only dis- 
contented Avith ourselves Avhen Ave are 
struggling to be better than ourselves.’ 

‘And in many Avays,’ said Laurence, ‘I 
think the struggle has been successful. 
Take, for instance, the i3leasure Ave get 
noAV from the asj^ects of external nature, 
and the Avay in which these seem to mix 
themselves Avith our lives. This certainly 
is something distinctly modern. And 
nearly all our other feelings, it seems to 
me, have changed just like this one, and 
have become more sensitive, and more 
highly organised. If we may judge by 
its expression in literature, love has, cer- 
tainly ; and that I suppose is the most 
important and comprehensive feeling in 
life.’ 

‘Does Mr. Laurence only suppose that ?’ 
sighed Mrs. Sinclair, casting doAvn her 
eyes. 

‘Well,’ said Dr. Jenkinson, ‘ our feel- 
ings about these tAVo things — about love 
and external nature, perhaps have changed 
somewhat. Y’es, I think they ha\^e. I tliink 
you might make an interesting magazine 
article out of that — but hardly more.’ 

‘ I rather, ’ said Laurence apologetically, 

‘ agree Avith Mr. Luke and Mr. Rose, that 
all our feelings liaA^e developed just as 
these tAVO liaA^e. And I think this is 2 >artly 
oAving to the fusion in our minds of our 
our sacred and secular ideas — Avhich in- 
deed you Avere siDeaking of this morning 
in your sermon. Thus, to find some 
rational xiuiq^ose in life Avas once merely 
enjoined as a suxiernatural duty. In our 


90 


THE NEW REPUBT.IC. 


times it has tahen our comuion nature 
upon it, anJ become a natural longing — 
though, I fear,’ ho added softly, ‘ a fruit- 
less one. ’ 

‘Yes,’ suddenly exclaimed Lady Grace, 
Avho had been listening intently to lier 
nephew’s words ; ‘ and if you are speak- 
ing of modern lu’ogress, Otho, you should 
not leave out the ditTusion of those grand 
ideas of justice, and right, and freedom, 
and humanity which are at work in the 
great heart of the nation. We are grow- 
ing cultivated in IMr. Luke’s noble sense 
of the word, and our whole hearts revolt 
against the way in which women have 
hitherto been treated, and against the 
cruelties which dogma asserts the good 
God can practise, and the cruelties on the 
l^oor animals which wicked men do i^rac- 
tise. And war, too, ’ Lady Grace went on, 
a glow mounting into her soft faded cheek, 
‘think how fast we are outgrowing that ! 
England at any rate will never watch the 
outbreak of another war, with all its inev- 
itable cruelties, without giving at least 
one sob that shall make all Euroi)e pause 
and listen. Indeed, we must not forget 
how the entire substance of religion is 
ceasing to be a mass of dogmas, and is 
l)ocoming embodied instead in practice 
and in action.’ 

‘Quite true. Lady Grace,’ said Mr. 
Luke.‘ Lady Grace was just about to have 
given a sign for rising ; l)ut IMr. Luke’s 
assent detained her. ‘ As to war, ’ he went 
on, ‘ there may, of course, be different opin- 
ions. Questions of policy may arise ’ 

(‘As if any policy,’ murmured Lady 
Grace, ‘ could justify us in such a thing !’) 

‘ ])ut religion — yes that, as I have been 
trying to teach the world, is the great and 
important point on which culture is be- 
ginning to cast its light — and with just 
the effect which you describe. It is true 
that culture is at i)resent but a little leav- 
en hid in a barrel of meal ; but still it is 
doing its work slowly ; and in the matter 
of religion — indeed, in all matters, for re- 


ligion rightly understood embraces all ’ 

(‘ I do like to hoar Mr. Luke talk some- 
times, ’ murmured Lady Grace), Mts effect 
is just this — to show us that religion in 
any civilised, any reasonable, any sweet 
sense, can never be found except embod- 
ied in action ; that it is, in fact, nothing 
but right action, pointed — winged, as it 
were — by right emotion, by a glow, an 
aspiration — an aspiration towards God — ■’ 
(Lady Grace sighed with feeling) — ‘ not of 
course,’ Mr. Luke went on confidently, 
‘ that i^ctulant Pedant of the theologians— 
that irritable angry Father, with tiie very 
uncertain tcmj)er — but towards ’ 

‘x4n infinite, inscrutable, loving Being,’ 
began Lady Grace, with a slight moisture 
in her eyes. 

‘ Quite so, ’ said Mr. Luke, not waiting 
to listen, ‘ towards that great Law — that 
great stream Avhose flowing such of us as 
are able are now so anxiously t lying to 
accelerate. There is no vain speculation 
about creation, and first causes, and con- 
sciousness here, which are matters we can 
never verify, and nvliich matter nothing to 


‘ But, ’ stammered Lady Grace aghast, 
‘ Mr. Luke, do you mean to say that — but 
it surely must matter something whether 
God can hear our prayers, and will help 
us, and whether we owe Him any duty, 
and whether He is conscious of what we 
do, and will judge us — it must matter ’ 

Mr. Luke leaned forwards towards Lady 
Grace, and, spoke to her in a confidential 
whisper. 

‘ Not two straws — not that,’ he said witli 
a smile, and a very sligUt fillip of his fin- 
ger and thumb. 

Lady Grace was thunderstruck. 

‘But,’ again she stammered softly, and 
eagerly, ‘ unless you say there is no per- 
sonal ’ 

Mr. Luke hated the word personal \ it 
was so much mixed uj) in his mind with 
theology, that he even winced if he had 
to speak of iiersonal talk. 


THE NEW KEPUBLIO. 


97 


‘My dear Lady Grace,’ lie said in a tone 
of surprised remonstrance, ‘ yon are talk- 
ing like a Bislioj). ’ 

‘Well, certainly,’ said Lady Grace, ris- 
ing, and struggling, slie hardly knew how, 
into a smile, ‘ nolo episcopari. You see I 
do know a little Latin, Mr. Luke. ’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Luke with a bow, as he 
pushed back a chair for her, ‘ and a bit 
that has more wisdom in it than all other 
ecclesiastical Latin put together. ’ 

‘We’re going to leave you gentlemen to 
smoke your cigarettes,’ said Lady Grace. 

‘ We think of going down on the beach 
for a little, and looking at the sea, which 
is getting silvery ; and by-and-by, I dare 
say you will not expel us if we come back 
for a little tea and coffee. ’ 

‘ Damn it !’ 

Scarcely had the last trailing skirt swept 
glimmering out of the pavilion into the 
mellow and slowly-brightening moonlight, 
than the gentlemen were astounded by 
this sudden and terrible exclamation. It 
was soon found to have issued from Mr. 
Saunders, who had hardly spoken more 
than a few sentences during the whole of 
dinner. 

‘ What can be the matter ?’ was enquired 
by several voices. 

‘My fool of a servant,’ said Mr. Saund- 
ers sullenly, ‘has, I find, in packing, 
wrapped up a small sponge of mine in my 
disproof of God’s existence. ’ 

‘ H’f, ’ shuddered Mr. Bose, shrinking 
from Mr. Saunders’s somewhat piercing 
tones, and resting his forehead on his 
hand, ‘ my head aches sadly. I think I 
will go down to the sea, and join the la- 
dies. ’ 

‘ I,’ said Mr. Saunders, ‘ if you will ex- 
cuse me, must go and see in what state 
the document is, as I left at drying, hung 
on the handle of my jug.’ 

No sooner had Mr. Saunders and Mr. 
Bose departed than Dr. Jenkinson began 
to recover his equinimity somewhat. See- 
ing this, Mr. Storks, who had himself du- 
7 


ring dinner been first soothed and then 
ruffled into silence, found suddenly the 
strings of his tongue loosed. 

‘ Now, those are the sort of young fel- 
lows,’ he said, looking after the retreating 
form of Mr. Saunders, ‘ that really do a 
good deal to bring all solid knowledge 
into contempt in the minds of the half- 
educated. There’s a certain hall in Lon- 
don, not far from the top of Begent Street, 
where I’m told he gives Sunday lectures.’ 

‘ Yes, ’ said Dr. Jenkinson, sipping his 
claret, ‘ it’s all very bad taste — very bad 
taste. ’ 

‘ And the worst of it is,’ said Mr. Storks, 

‘ that these young men really get hold of 
a fact or two, and then push them on to 
their own coarse and insane conclusions — 
which have, I admit, to the vulgar eye, 
the look of being obvious. ’ 

‘Yes,’ said Dr. Jenkinson, with a ser- 
aphic sweetness, ‘ we should always sus- 
pect everything that seems very obvious. 
Glaring inconsistencies and glaring con- 
sistencies are both sure to vanish if you 
look closely into them. ’ 

‘ Now all that about God, for instance,’ 
Mr. Storks went on, ‘ is utterly uncalled 
for ; and, as young Saunders puts it, is 
utterly misleading.’ 

‘Yes,’ said Dr. Jenkinson, ‘it all de- 
pends upon the way you say it. ’ 

‘I hardly think,’ said Mr. Stockton 
with a sublime weariness, ‘ that we need 
waste much thought upon his way. It is 
a very common one — that of the puppy 
that barks at the heals of the master whose 
meat it steals. ’ 

‘ May I, ’ said Mr. Herbert gently, after 
a moment’s pause, ‘ ask this, for I am a 
little puzzled here. Do I understand that 
Mr. Saunders’s arguments may be held, 
on the face of the thing, to disprove the 
existence of God ?’ 

Mr. Storks and Mr. Stockton both star- 
ed gravely on Mr. Herbert; and said 
nothing. Dr. Jenkinson stared at him 
too ; but the Doctor’s eye lit up into a 


98 


THE NEW BEPUBLIC. 


little sliarj) twinkle of benign content and 
amusement, and lie said 

‘ No, Mr. Herbert, I don’t think Mr. 
Saunders can disi^rove that, nor anyone 
else either. For the w'orld has at i^resent 
no adequate definition of God ; and I 
think w'e should be able to define a thing 
before we can satisfactorily disj^rove it. 
I think so. I have no doubt Mr. Saun- 
ders can disprove the existence of God, as 
he would define Him. All atheists can do 
that. ’ 

‘ Ah, ’ murmured Mr. Stockton, ‘ ix)bly 
said !’ 

‘But that’s not the way,’ the Doctor 
went on, ‘to set to work — this kind of 
rude denial. We must be loyal to nature. 
We must do nothing per saltum. We must 
be patient. We mustn’t leap at Utopias, 
either religious or irreligious. Let us be 
content with the knowledge that all dog- 
mas will expand in proportion as we feel 
they need expansion ; for all mere forms are 
transitory, and even the jDersonality of 

Fatal word ! It was like a match to a 
cannon. 

‘Ah, Jenkinson,’ exclaimed Mr. Luke, 
and Dr. Jenkinson stopped instantly, ^we 
see Avhat you mean ; and capital sense it 
is too. But you do yourself as much as 
anyone else a great injustice, in not see- 
ing that the age is composed of two parts, 
and that the cultured minority is infinitely 
in advance of the Philistine majority — 
which alone is, x)roperly speaking, the 
qu’esent ; the minority being really the 
soul of the future waiting for its body, 
which at present can exist only as a Uto- 
i:>ia. It is the wants of this soul that we 
have been talking over this afternoon. 
Wlien the ladies come back to us, there 
are several things that I should like to 
say ; and then you will see what we mean, 
Jenkinson — and that even poor Kose has 
really some right on his side. ’ 

At the mention of Mr. Bose’s name the 
Doctor’s face again curdled into frost. 

‘ I don’t think so. ’ That w’as all he said. 


CHAPTEB II. 

‘We could really, Mr. Luke, almost 
fancy that w e heard the Sirens singing, 
just now^,’ said Mrs. Sinclair, wdicn the 
ladies of the party had returned from 
their ramble on the shore, with Mr. Bose 
amongst thenij like Apollo leading the 
Muses. 

The coloured lamps were now glowing 
brightly, with their green and purple 
clusters ; the table was glittering under 
them, a wilderness of enchanted spark- 
lings ; and outside the moonlight w’as 
bathing everything, the roof and pillars 
of the pavilion, the myrtles, and the mul- 
titudes of crow^ding roses, which trembled 
just a little in the air that they themselves 
scented. 

‘Yes,’ Mrs. Sinclair said, wdiilst there 
were some arrangements going on amongst 
the others with shawls and opera-cloaks, 
‘I never saw anything like the sea to- 
night. Far off the spray amongst the 
rocks looked like mermaids playing ; and 
at our feet it seemed as if the little i>ale 
waves were whispering and sighing mes- 
sages to us. I don’t think I should like 
to tell quite aU I thought they said to me. 
And listen,’ she cried with a faint sigh, 

‘ is not that the nightingale ? It is — I am 
certain it is ! — 

The same that oft-times hath 
Charmed magic casements opening on the 
foam 

Of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn. * 

What a night it is, to be sure ! We all 
felt down on the beach as if w^e were 
literally breathing in Bomance — or — well, 
I don’t know what the right word is.’ 

‘And I,’ said Mr. Bose, ‘ have been ex- 
plaining to them, that, had they lived in 
any other age, they would have felt noth- 
ing of all this ; that they feel it, by virtue 
of senses that have only been acquired in 
ours. ’ 

* Keats, Ode to the Nightingale. 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


99 


‘Yes,’ said Mr. Luke, clearing liis 
throat ; ‘ that’s quite true, and I want 
now to try and explain clearly how and 
why it is true. I was particularly anx- 
ious,’ he said in a whisi)er to Laurence as 
he drew his chair forward, ‘ to si)eak of 
this when your Homan Catholic friend 
was here ; as she seems a very intelligent 
young lady, and is, I have no doubt, fally 
alive to some of the grotesquenesses of 
what she considers to be her creed. ’ 

Mr. Luke resettled himself. On one 
side of him was Miss Merton, in a pale 
blue opera cloak, bordered with white 
fur, and embroidered with gold, some- 
thing in her large eyes of a subdued sad- 
ness ; and on the other side was Mrs. 
Sinclair, all in white, who looked like a 
wood-anemone against a background of 
dark foliage. 

‘ Now, ’ Mr. Luke continued, raising his j 
voice a little, but speaking with a more | 
mellow persuasiveness than usual, ‘ we all | 
of us feel, in a general way — I think I may 
say that we nearly all of us feel — that the 
cultured minority of the i^resent age is 
endowed with feelings, sentiments, and 
powers of insight, not only in advance of 
its common contemporaries, but in ad- 
vance of all i^receding times. We under- 
stand natural beauty, and natural affec- 
tions, and above all moral beauty, in a 
new way, all our own. Now, to what is 
the advance due ? It is all due to culture 
in its highest connection — its connection 
with religion. We feel stronger emotions 
about natural scenery, for just the same 
reason that* we feel stronger emotions 
about righteousness. And the reason is, 
that our emotions, in eitlier case, no 
longer teni^^t us to draw grotesque infer- 
ences from themselves. There’s the whole 
heart of the matter. We rest gratefully 
content with the objects that excite our 
love ; we don’t pass away beyond them, 
and forget them. You had an excellent 
instance of the old treatment I condemn 
in those verses of Euripides which Mr. 


Laurence has translated with so much 
tenderness. There, you see, you have 
nature — flowers, meadows, and so forth ; 
and more important still, you have a high 
conceiffion of virtue. But yet in that 
l)oem y3u have no real feeling for either 
the flowers or the virtue. The feeling on- 
ly grazes these, so to speak, and glances 
off to a shadowy deity beyond, Avho was 
no more true, no more verifiable, than any 
of the rest of her kind, male or female, 
singular or triple. And now,’ Mr. Luke 
went on, turning to Miss Merton, ‘ here is 
another illustration of the whole thing — of 
the advance made by culture in our en- 
tire mental state, of which I particularly 
wanted to talk to you (for in one iDoint at 
least we agree, even professedly — the doc- 
trine of development), and this is an illus- 
tration of it that you in a special way will 
apiu’eciate. You, of course,’ said Mr. 
Luke, ‘know something, more or less, 
about St. Augustine, I suppose.’ 

As it was with her reading that Father’s 
account of Ids conversion that Miss Mer- 
ton in a i^eculiar way associated her own, 
she looked at Mr. Luke with increased 
interest, feeling at the same time that she 
had certainl}^ as much knowledge on the 
subject as he so generously gave her credit 
for. 

‘Well,’ Mr. Luke went on, ‘Augustine 
was, on the whole, you know, the most 
cultured of all the Fathers, and, consider- 
ing the early date at which he lived, had 
in some ways a real insight into Christi- 
anity ; so we may safely consider him as 
the most favourable si^ecimen of the re- 
sults of the old system. Let us take then 
the purest and most elevating of all the 
pleasures of life, and enquire, through 
him, how it is treated and looked upon by 
theological Christianity. The eyes, says 
Augustine, love fair and various forms, 
and shining and lovely colours ; and all 
day long they are before me, and solicit 
my contemi)lation. “ For ” (and this ex- 
quisite sentence I remember in his very 


100 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


words) “the Light, that queen of colours, 
bathing all that we can look upon, fi'om 
morning till evening, let me go where I 
will, will still keep gliding by me in un- 
numbered guises, and soothes me whilst I 
am busy at other things, and am thinking 
nothing of her.” ’ * 

Miss Merton was pleased at the ai^pre- 
dative tone in which Mr. Luke quoted. 
Mr. Luke noticed this, and he was pleased 
also. 

‘ And now,’ he continued, ‘what return 
does our gentleman make to the light for 
its beautiful and constant service to him ? 
Does he thank it ? does he praise it ? 
does he seek it ? No — ’ Mr. Luke here 


gave a little laugh — ‘ not a bit of it ! He 
l)rays to his God that he may be delivered 
from its insidious snares ; he envies the 
blindness of Tobit, and describes himself 
as “earnestly groaning ” under the temp- 
tations of these eyes of his flesh. That is 
all ! There,’ said Mr. Luke, with a con- 
fident ai^i^eal to Miss Merton, whose ex- 
pression was now slightly altering, ‘ we 
have in a most pointed form the barbar- 
ising results of the old theological religion. 
And now, put side by side with this, the 
following expression of the religion of 
sweet reason, such as culture reveals it to 
us. It deals with exactly the same sense, 
and the same pleasures : — 


What soul was his, when, from the naked top 
Of some hold headland, he beheld the sun 
Kise up, and bathe the world in light ! He looked — 
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
And ocean’s liquid mass beneath him lay 
In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touched, 
And in their silent faces could be read 
Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 

Nor any voice of joy ; his s^jirit drank 
The spectacle : sensation, soul, and form. 

All melted into him ; they swallowed up 
His animal being ; in them did he live. 

And by them did he live ; they were his life. 

In such access of mind, in such high hour 
Of visitation from the living God, 

Thought was not ; in enjoyment it expired ; 

No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request, f 


A sudden sigh here escaj^ed from some 
one. Mr. Luke looked round. 

‘Ah,’ exclaimed Mr. Stockton, ‘ what a 
description of in-ayer ! AVhat a noble, 
what a magnificent description ?” 

The fashion of Mr. Luke’s countenance 
changed. He stopped short, he would 
not proceed a word farther. His whole 
quotation had been ruined, he felt, by this 
odious interruption. 

‘ I never supposed,’ said Miss Merton, 
who thought Mr. Luke i)ausing that she 

* Vide Aug. Gonf. 1. ix. c. 34. 
t Vide Wordsworth, Excursion Book i. 


might give in her acquiescence, ‘ I never 
supposed St. Augustine’s view's quite final 
upon all matters. I dare say tliere are 
some things that even I could, have taught 
him. ’ 

She smiled as she sj\id this ; but there 
was a little embarrassment in her tone 
which was perceived by Laurence, and 
which brought him at once to her rescue. 

‘I,’ he said, ‘think the contrast Mr. 
Luke has drawn even stronger than he 
has made it. I by no means think that 
Augustine was afraid of the pleasures of 
light and sight as they were enjoyed by 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


101 


Wordsworth ; for I can hardly fancy that 
he could have had the least conception of 
them. They seem to me a new and i>e- 
culiar heritage, which we may all more or 
less have j)art in ; hut which hy former 
ages were undreamt of, not rejected. I 
often myself look back on a certain early 
walk I took one spring morning in these 
gardens — amongst the very trees and flow- 
er-beds we are now looking out upon. 
The fresh softness that was in the air, and 
all the wandering scents, like dreams or 
l^rophecies of summers gone or coming, 
and the wet light glistening on the dewy 
leaves, seemed to go at once to the soul — 
to “melt into me,” as into Wordsworth’s 
herdsman. Once I surprised myself stoop- 
ing under a dripping bough, to look up- 
wards at a yellow flower, and watch it 
lonely against a background of blue sky ; 
and once I started to find myself quite 
lost in staring at a red rock, gleaming 
amongst shrubs and ivy, which a plant of 
periwinkle spangled with a constellation 
of i^urple stars. The colour, the shape, 
the smell of every leaf and flower — each 
seemed to touch me like a note of music ; 
and the bloom of morning mist was over 
everything. ’ 

‘ Ah, ’ said Mrs. Sinclair, her dark eyes 
gleaming in the moonlight, ‘how those 
siDi’ing mornings sometimes make one sick 
with longing !’ 

‘Yes,’ said Laurence, ‘with longing — 
with a vague longing ; not always, I am 
afraid, with thanksgiving or with praise. 
But I think the feeling in all its moods is 
the same in some ways. It is a mixing to- 
gether of outward and inward things — our 
whole inward lives passing out of us into 
Nature ; Nature melting into us, and 
growing part of our inward lives, so that 
all our hoiDes and fears and memories be- 
come embodied things, touching us in 
scents of flowers, in the breath of the air, 
in the sparkle of water, or mixing, like 
Hamadryads, their beings with the trees. 
Now, could I have described such feelings 


as these — my own state of mind during my 
morning walk — to St. Augustine, he would 
not have understood me. He would have 
thought me raving. And my case is not 
peculiar. These feelings are no private 
things of my own. They belong to our 
whole age. And of this,’ Laurence went 
on, ‘ you may see a very curious proof in 
a part of our modern literature, which as 
literature is least successful. I mean a 
certain class of novels ; not the works of 
the greater novelists, still less the works 
of the professional novel-manufacturers ; 

I not these, but a sort of production almost 
peculiar to our own time — the novels of 
amateurs, who write perhaps but a single 
book during their wdiole lives ; and that 
one, with the simple aim of j)ouring out 
their own feelings for themselves to con- 
template, or of explaining to themselves 
or others their own histories.’ 

‘ And so, ’ said Mr. Storks, ‘ you would 
gauge the refinement of the age by its 
silliest novels ?’ 

‘ I think we too often forget, ’ said Lau- 
rence, ‘ that a very silly book may be evi- 
dently the w^ork of a very clever person ; 
and may show its author possessed of ev- 
ery gift, except that of literature. And in 
many of the poor novels I am speaking of, 
the utter failure of the expression often 
only calls our attention more strongly to 
the depth, the delicacy, and the refine- 
ment of what the wuiter has struggled to 
express. I was reading a girl’s novel in 
the train the other day, called Love in a 
Life. Its long spasms of ungrammatical 
verbiage, its utter w’ant of knowledge of 
the world, would have turned the dullest 
reviewer, in spite of himself, into a caustic 
wit. But there was something all through 
it, that its authoress w^as trying — trying to 
utter, that reminded me of Ariel trying to 
escape from his tree. What, Lady Am- 
brose ! Have you wultten a novel ? No ? 
Then why are you looking so mysterious 
and so full of meaning ?’ 


102 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


‘ Go on, Mr. Laurence,’ said Ladv Am- 
brose. ‘ I’ll show you bv-and-by. ’ 

‘ Well, ’ said Laurence, ‘ take any one of 
these noyels, and yon will tind the writer 
looking on Nature in just that ijeculiar 
modern way that we have been talking 
of. I don’t say you will always find the 
sentiment in the books, but the books will 
show you that you would find it in the 
writers. And this feeling about Nature is 
but an example of others. Take, as I said, 
the modern conception of love, and study 
that too, in these foolish novels. A"ou will 
find half the folly comes from an attempt 
to express much, not from success in ex- 
pressing little.’ 

A pause followed this. It was broken 
at last by Allen. 

‘ I quite agree with Mr. Laurence, ’ he 
said diffidently. ‘ I have not much right 
to judge, I dare say. I am not a great 
reader ; and I can only si)eak from books. 
But still I know a little of the love poetry 
of this and of other times ; and the poetry 
of this has always seemed to me far — far 
the highest. It has seemed to me to give 
the i^assions so much more meaning, and 
such a much greater influence over all 
life. And this I suppose, must be because 
men, as the world goes on, are really learn- 
ing to love in a higher way than perhaps 
they themselves are often conscious of. ’ 

‘I think some philosox^her,’ murmured 
Mrs. Sinclair to Leslie, ‘ says we feel that 
we are greater than we know. It must be 
a great comfort sometimes to know that 
we are greater than we feel. ’ 

‘ Is it not Novalis,’ went on Allen, ‘ who 
says that if all the human race were a 
single pair of lovers, the difierence be- 
tween mysticism and non-mysticism would 
cease ? Would that have been understood 
even a hundred years ago ? But as to 
X^oets, I was tli inking of two English poets 
of our own day especially. Shakesx^eare 
may of course have exhibited the working 
of love more powerfully than they ; yet I 
am sure he could never have conceived its 


meaning and its nature so deexfiy. No 
heroine of his could have understood Mrs. 
Browning’s So/mcts from the Portuguese ; 
nor any hero of his her husband’s love 
lyrics. What seems to me the thing so 
X^eculiarly modern, is this notion of love 
as something which, once truly attained, 
would, as Browning says, 

make Time break, 

Letting us pent-up creatures through 

Into Eternity, our due.’ * 

‘ Ah !’ murmured Mrs. Sinclair, ‘ but 
sux^x^ose there is no etei-nity ! I think we 
had better take what we can, and be thank- 
ful. Listen — listen again ! “The night- 
ingales, the nightingales !” There, Lord 
Allen, there is a bit of your Mrs. BroAvn- 
iEg for you. ’ 

‘What, Lord Allen !’ said Lady Am- 
brose, ‘ and is Mr. Bobert BroAvniug a 
better x^oet than Shakesx^eare ? I always 
thought Shakesx^eare was quite our best.’ 

‘ It is not a question, ’ said Laurence, as 
Allen did not sx^eak, ‘ of different x^oets, 
but of different ages. I have often Avon- 
dered myself hoAV far Faust Avould liaA^e 
ax^x^e^^lcd to the author of Hamlet, and 
Avhether all the sx>iritual action of the 
drama, in so far as it relates to the hero- 
ine, might not be lost ux^on him. What a 
difference betAveen Margaret and Ox>helia 
not betAveen themselves, but betAveen the 
parts they play ! Shakesx^eare himself 
might have understood Margai’et’s influ- 
ence. I doubt it. But even if he had, 
that Avould x)i‘ove little. Shakespeare’s 
was — 

The prophetic soul 

Of the wide world dreaming on things to 
come ; f 

and the “ wide world” of his time Avouhl 
itself have understood nothing of it. But 
Avhat strikes me still more than the groAvth 
of x>articular feelings, is the infusion and 


* Vide Mr. E. BroAvning’s Bis allter visum. 
t Vide Shakesx^eare, Sonnet cvii. 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


103 


the inter-penetration of all. Look at 
Shakespeare’s Sonnets. He loved the 
objects they were addressed to ; ho loved 
flowers and Nature. But these two sets 
of things were connected only in his mind, 
they were wot f u^ied. Take, however, that 
most typical of all modern poems — the 
celebrated love-song in Maud, and think 
of that : — 

The slender acacia would not shake 
One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 

The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 

And the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 

Ibit the rose was awake all night for your sake, 
Knowing your promise to me ; 

The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sighed for the dawn and thee. 

What a passion is here ! We almost hear 
the lover’s pulses as they painfully beat 
quicker. Our breath catches with his ; 
and we long and long with his. longing. 
And yet hardly a word about his feelings 
is said directly. The secret is echoed 
back to us from the scene and from the 
summer night. It is the milk-bloom of 
the acacia, the musk of the roses, the stir 
of the morning breeze, that tells it all to 
us as if they were living things, and as if 
a human passion had passed into them for 
a soul. Now, would the world have un- 
derstood this in any other times but ours ? 
I don’t think even Shakespeare’s Jessica 
would, nor Dante’s Beatrice, nor Petrarch’s 
Laura, nor Horace’s Lydia, nor Plato’s 
Diotima, nor Homer’s Helen.’ 

‘Listen !’ exclaimed Mr. Bose, eagerly, 
as soon as Laurence stoj)ped ; ‘ will you 
let me read one passage out of my work 
which bears upon this very point — in fact, 
sums up exactly what you have been say- 
ing ? It occurs,’ said Mr. Bose, who was 
sitting ready under one of the lamps with 
some printer’s i^roofs before him, ‘ in my 
Efisaj/ on Capacity. Bui chief ' — this is 
the i')assage I mean — But chief amongst 
the neir things which the heart of man has 
come to the understandmg of is the passion 


of love, in Us distinctly mode^'n form. The 
goddess of this love is no Icmgei' the Aphrodite 
of the Greeks, or the Mary of the Christians. 
She is a mystendous hybrid being, in whose 
veins is the blood of both of them. She is 
Mary in hen' desire of the Cre(Uor ; she is 
Aphrodite in hen' desire of the creature; and 
in hei' desire of the cn'eaticm, she is also 
Artemis.” ’ (Oh, this will never do — this 
Avill neve?' do !’ muttered Dr. Jenkinson 
to himself, tapping with his feet on the 
ground.) ^ ^Mnto the sh'ange passion,” * 
Mr. Bose went on, ‘ ichich hers is 
the tutelage, then'e have melted the sounds of 
woods and of water's, and the shapes and the 
h ues of ?nountains, and the savour of airs 
and winds, and the odours of all fkncei'S. 
All the joys, indeed, of the senses have fallen 
into it, like streams into one sea. And with 
the joys of the spirit it has been likewise. 
But whereas the senses have contributed their 
joys mahdy, the spirit has contributed its 
sorrows and p)(^d7is as wSl. Thi'oughout 
this love, despite its fulness of life, there yet 
runs also a constant taint of death, of which 
it needs cleansing — grotesque troubles and 
misgivings of conscience, and cloistral medi- 
tations, and fantastic repentances. For this 
very reason, howevei', is it the more wholly 
expressive to us of the ma?i's inne?' develop- 
ment. It shows us how all his desires, senses, 
and powers of feeling, have been gi'owing 
together, and coalescing into a single organ- 
ism, capable of quite ?iew sets of pleasures, 
and responding to far fine)' movements 
from without.'” 

‘H’m,’ said Mr. Luke, slowly, in a 
tone of meditative commendation, ‘ there’s 
a great deal of truth in that — a very great 
deal — if the fellow,’ he added to himself, 
‘ would only put it a little better. ’ 

‘Are you quite sure,’ said Dr. Jenkin- 
son, looking round him in an agony of 
suppressed irritation, ‘ that anyone at all 
feels all these things, beyond the very few 
IDeojile who talk about them ?’ 
j ‘Yes,’ said Mr. Bose, smiling with a 
I honeyed gravity, and wholly unconscious 


104 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


of the Doctor’s animus, ‘ all feel thus who 
have any part or lot in the w'orld’s devel- 
opment. ’ 

‘ You,* said the Doctor, turning sharply 
away from Mr. Hose, ‘ think so, Laurence, 
don’t you, because you find some of the 
same sort of phrases in novels ? I don’t 
think, you’ll find very much thought in 
those novels — not very much. They are 
effeminate foolish books. * 

‘Yes,* said Allen, with an assenting 
voice that much pleased the Doctor, ‘ a 
great deal of this increased depth and 
refinement of feeling, I know, is very 
good — all of it, I dare say, may be. — 
But still, if left to itself, it must tend — 
indeed, I have often seen it tend — to 
make men effeminate, as Dr. Jenkinson 
says, and unfit for work. Now, I dare say 
Mr. Luke will call me a barbarian, but I 
am going to venture to say that, in spite 
of all that is s^id against it, that barba- 
rous thing s23ort — shooting, deer-stalking, 
hunting — is of great value, especially to 
people wdio are not barbarians, as a kind 
of mental tonic. It makes them active and 
spirited — it must do so : it gives them 
presence of mind, and a readiness to exert 
themselves ; and though sport may in one 
sense be a self-indulgence, it is a self-in- 
dulgence that is constantly teaching all 
sorts of self-denial. * 

‘My dear Lord Allen,* said Mr. Luke, 
‘ I most entirely agree with you. It does 
seem, I admit, at first sight, a somewhat 
singular thing, that the result of the latest 
civilisation should be to give men leisure 
to return to the occupations of their earli- 
est barbarism — and those too dej)rived of 
their one justification — necessity. But 
still these barbarous sports must, as you 
say, if not pursued too exclusively, give a 
valuable moral tone to minds whose re- 
finement might else become weakness. 
Only the worst of the matter, as it actually 
stands, is this — that the majority of i^eo- 
ple who do follow sport, are the very j^eo- 
ple who have no refinement that needs 


strengthening, but merely an idle aimless 
strength that needs refining. And you 
must remember. Lord Allen, that the man 
who is gluttonous of aimless bodily action 
is no better tliato the man who is an ei^i- 
cure in aimless mental emotion. * 

‘And so,* said Donald Gordon, with 
devout solemnity, ‘ this is what we must 
remedy in our new Kepublic. Our gen- 
tlemen there must have both sides of their 
nature develo 2 )ed equally ; and they must 
be at once so intellectual and so manly, as 
to be content that partridges and foxes 
shall die exclusively for them, without 
their living exclusively for j^art ridges and 
foxes. * 

‘Exactly so,* said Mr. Luke drily. 
‘Some one observed this afternoon,’ 
said Allen, turning a little stiffly to Don- 
ald Gordon, ‘ how one could see the ex- 
pression of a girl’s face changed by the 
influence of a little genuine mental cul- 
ture. I have noticed the same thing in 
men’s faces, under the influence of a little 
genuine bodily culture. And I think my- 
self that the moors of your country, or a 
river in Norway, or a good cruise in a 
yacht, may go — w^ell, at least half as far 
towards making a complete man, as the 
study of books, and art, and poetry, in an 
arm-chair, or in a picture-gallery. ’ 

‘ I think that is so true,* said Miss Mer- 
ton softly to him in a whisper, for Dr. 
Jenkinson had begun to speak. 

‘But,* the Doctor was saying, ‘you 
must want something besides looking at 
jDretty scenery, and falling in love, and 
shooting. I think you want something 
besides that to make life complete. You 
will want to exercise your intellect — your 
reason. * 

‘Yes,* said Allen, ‘and I defend all this 
voluntary physical exercise and excite- 
ment, because I think it makes the mind 
even more healthy than it does the body.* 
‘Yes,* said Dr. Jenkinson with a smile, 
‘I think that’s right.* 

‘You, gentlemen,* interposed Lady 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


105 


Grace, ‘ seem to be taking very good j 
care of yourselves ; but are we women 
to shoot and take all this exercise al- 
so ?’ 

‘That,’ said Mr. Luke with a courtly 
smile, ‘ we defer to your superior wisdom. 
There are, however, two helps to educa- 
tion, akin to exercise, in which both sexes 
will share, and which in a i^erfect state of 
society would be most imjjortant in their 
results. I mean travelling, and the halv- 
ing of our lives between town and country. 
The completeness, the, many-sidedness of 
such culture as there is amongst us, is in 
a great measure due to these ; but it is 
only slowly that we are learning to use 
them proiDerly. Of course, Jenkinson, 
you understand all this — no man can do 
so better. It is simply the music and 
gymnastic of the Greeks. It is simply 
true education, which is but another name 
for culture. And in the cultivated man, 
thoaght, and taste, and feeling, and spirit 
are really all one, and fused together. 
Could we but look forward to a time when 
all or even the greater i)art of those one 
meets would unite these priceless gifts, 
there might then indeed be some satis- 
faction and some hope in life. ’ 

‘And don’t you want goodness ?’ said 
Dr. Jenkinson, all his sharjjiiess return- 
ing ; ‘ do you want no sense of duty, and 
right, and wrong ?’ 

‘ Yes, ’ said Laurence, ‘ but we have in- 
cluded that already. We have found that 
that is pre-suj)posed in every educated 
pleasure. It is that that gives even our 
lightest conversation its best s^jarkle, and 
beads its surface over with its bright, 
crisp foam of half-conscious irony. The 
moral ideal is a note, as it were, w hich w^e 
are ahvays hearing, and with which our 
daily talk makes continual harmonies, be- 
cause it is never pitched in unison wuth it. 
Thus we talk of killing time, and so on, 
as being the great end of our lives ; of 
money or position being the only thing to 
marry for ; and of marriage ties as if they 


j were always a weariness, or a grotesque 
torture. ’ 

‘ And thus, ’ said Leslie, ‘ we say a man 
has had, jyar excellence, a success, when he 
has, for his own selfish i^leasure, done a 
w’oman the greatest injury possible.’ 

‘ And thus,’ said Donald Gordon softly, 
^ when he does not tell all the Avorld he 
has done so, we say he is a perfect gentle- 
man.’ 

‘ And do you want no religion ?’ said Dr. 
Jenkinson, 2 :)aying no attention to all this, 
but again turning to Mr. Luke. 

‘My dear Jenkinson,’ said IVlv. Luke, 

‘ you and I agree ui)on these matters so 
well, that I think you must be trying to 
misunderstand us. Can religion and mor- 
als be sei^arated ? and are not they both 
included in w hat w^e mean by culture ? 
Is it not in virtue of culture — of that nice 
and com 2 )lex discrimination — that w^e can 
tell at once wdien we come across a genu- 
ine log ion of Jesus amongst the sayings 
vulgarly suj^posed to be most distinctive 
of Him ? Think, for instanceV Mr. Luke 
continued, ‘ wdiat a beautiful and profound 
harmony is at once inad'e amongst our 
heartstrings, if culture have really tuned 
them, by such a story as that of the w^om- 
an taken in adultery, or by the jiarable of 
the Prodigal Son, or by such siinide preg- 
nant sayings as, “ uTzdyco xac inyofmc 
Trgo^ and then turn for a moment 

to the theological accounts of the Trinity ! 
Why,’ exclaimed Mr. Luke wdth a sudden 
jauntiness, ‘ to sit on the key-board of an 
organ would make music compared to the 
discord, the jangling, the string-breaking 
that Church Catechisms, and Athauasian 
Creeds, and Ejiiscoijal S 2 )eculations on the 
23ersonality of the Creator, make on the 
musical instrument of the cultured mind. 
Ah, ’ Mr. Luke continued, ‘ could the 
Founder of Christianity only have found 
men of more culture as His immediate 
dlsci 2 des and re23orters — could he only 
have secured a biogra23her as sim2)ly hon- 
est as 2 )oor Boswell w^as— Well, well, but 


lOG 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


it’s no use spoenlating about wliat niiglit 
liave been. Religion lias had bad times 
hitherto, but now at last we — some of us, 
at least — are seeing the way to make them 
better ; you, yourself, Jenkinson, amongst 
the number. And all this is due to that 
very tiling whfch we say is the essence of 
the best human life — culture ; culture 
which is neither religion, nor morality, nor 
taste, nor intellect, nor knowledge, nor 
wide reading, but the single result of all-r- 
and this, ’ Mr. Luke added, ‘ showing it- 
self to tlie full — doing itself com 2 dete 
justice, lihrough — as our friends have al- 
ready said — what we call iDolish and high- 
breeding, and refinement of manner and 
of manners.’ 

‘ Surely you,’ said Mr. Stockton, turn- 
ing to Dr. Jenkinson with the most molli- 
fying deference, ‘ must agree with us that 
the resent century has seen the soul of 
man widening out, with all its marvellous 
2 >owers, and displaying new riches of 
beauty like an unfolding flower. But 
whilst we vtllue — and none can value more 
than I — our higher flights of imagination, 
our finer forms* of love, and j^oetry, and 
worshij), I am not blind to the great agent 
that is at the bottom of all this change. 
I mean the emancii^ated human intellect, 
with all its manifold a2)23aratus of discovery 
and conquest — that great liberator of life 
and thought, and religion. ’ 

‘ There is some truth in that,’ said Dr. 
Jenkinson, not ungraciously, ‘ but I think 
you are all 2 )utting it in a wrong way. 
And, Luke,’ he added with a little more 
causticity, ‘ to understand Christianity, 
you must know something of other relig- 
ions too. You must study the great re- 
ligions of the East, and compare them 
with those of the West. No religion can 
])e understood by its own light only.’ 

‘ In our ideal city,’ said Mr. Rose, ‘ as I 
saw it in my brief Ajoocalyi^se, you will 
find a home and a tenq^le for every creed, 
and for every form of worship). ’ 

‘What !’ exclaimed Lady Ambrose, ‘does 


Dr. Jenkinson want us to introduce Jug- 
gernaut and his car into England ?’ 

‘ May I ask you one question ?’ broke in 
Mr. Herbert suddenly, ‘ a question, which 
at times, I confess, seems to me not with- 
out im 2 )ortance ! Will this religion of 
3 "ours, as you told us in the afternoon it 
was based on the discrimination between 
I good and evil, also involve a discrimina- 
I tion between life and death ? Will it, I 
; mean, iDoint to any other life beyond this, 

I or will it not ? Is whatever evil and sor- 
I row we i^atiently suffer, a thing which, if 
I it do not bring its reward to us here, will 
I never bring us any reward at all ? And 
I shall we call the death of the noble suf- 
1 ferer blessed for no other reason than that 
he rests from his labours and his works do 
i not follow him ?’ 

i ‘ Dear me ! dear me !’ said Dr. Jenkin- 
i son petulantly to himself. ‘ These sort of 
! questions ought never to be asked in that 
j hard abrui^t way You can’t answer 
I them — you can’t answer them. ’ 

Mr. Stockton, however, found no diflfi- 
I culty with his answer. 

I ‘ As to that, ’ he said, ‘ each man would 
j think as he j^leased and his thoughts 
j would shaj)e Hiemselves to meet the deep- 
I est needs of his life. In the state of soci- 
ety we long for, the belief in a future life 
would be 02 )en to all to accept or to re- 
ject. The only thing to guard against 
would be any definite public opinion on 
the matter, one way or the other ; for in 
I any definite o23inion, remember, 

there is the germ of all dogmatism and of 
all 23ersecution. Public opinion, in society 
as it ought to be, would be a frictionless 
fluid, if I may borrow a meta 2 )hor from 
science, in which no adventitious obstacle 
from 23rejudice or otherwise would impede 
the 23rogress of any view that its own mer- 
its set in motion. ’ 

Mr. Luke was certainly an unfortunate 
man. Mr. Stockton had again, in 23art at 
least, ex 2 )ressed the exact thing which in 
other words he was going to have said 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


107 


himself. Mr. Lnke, however, did not 
fiincli. He boldly took the bull by the 
horns. 

‘ True, ’ he said ; ‘ that metaj)hor is in- 
genious, and ex^dains exactly what we 
want to explain. That is one of the great 
conditions' of a truly cultivated society, 
what Mr. Stockton calls a frictionless pub- 
lic opinion — a public ojjinion which shall 
let every system, every creed, every j^hil- 
osopliy of life, stand or fall on its own 
2:)ractical verifiable merits ; and this we 
sliall get, too, if we can only banish two 
things, jDrejudice and ignorance, of which 
last,’ Mr. Luke added, looking studiously 
away from Mr. Stockton, ‘ by far the dead- 
liest form is tlie fetish-worship of useless 
knowledge. ’ 

‘Well,’ said Miss Merton, ‘I supiDOse 
that this is all that any of us would ask, 
who really and truly believe in what we 
profess to believe. ’ 

‘ Of course it is, ’ said Mr. Luke, ‘ every- 
thing— every thing. ’ 

‘And I’m quite sure,’ said Lady Grace, 
‘that in a society where the tone is so 
nobly liberal, and where all have such a 
true and burning admiration of the moral- 
ly beautiful, it will be quite im2)ossible 
that woman’s life shall not be seen to be 
what it really is — a thing as callable as 
men’s of high aims, and inde2)endent jjur- 
poses, and not, as it were, entirely sunk 
ill theirs. I, Mr. Luke, in face of sucli a 
liublic oxiinion as you speak of, should 
have little fear for our cause. I think, 
under God, it would jirosper there. ’ 

‘Of course it would,’ said Mr. Luke, 
‘If culture enables us to detect beauty 
and to xirize it, what should it enable us 
to jirize more than womanhood, with all 
its exquisite capabilities develojped to their 
utmost ? Life has no greater ornament 
than cultured womanhood. ’ 

‘ Excexit cultured manhood,’ said Lady 
Grace, unconsciously giving Mr. Luke a 
slight wound by her generous and unex- 
X^ected return of his royal comx^liment. 


‘Ah,’ she sighed to herself with a look at 
Mr. Luke, ‘and he does not believe in 
God — or thinks he does not ! I suxipose 
it must needs be that offences come ; but 
I wish they did not come by such good 
men. However — I trust that it is all really 
for the best. And then — there is no such 
thing as eternal x^'^ii^ishment. One may 
be thankful to feel sure of that. ’ 

‘I am afraid you will think me very 
troublesome,’ said Mr. Herbert, who had 
been talking to Laurence in a low tone for 
the last few minutes, ‘but there is one 
question more I should like to ask you. 
I want to knoAV if you, who see the many 
delicate beauties of life, and the countless 
X^ositions it may be viewed from — I 'want 
to know if you will teach the lower, the 
commoner classes, who look ui^ to you as 
models, to quote i^oetry, and to be enquir- 
ing and scex)tical also ?’ 

‘I hox^e not, indeed,’ broke in Lady 
Ambrose with vigour ; ‘ and as to our be- 
ing their models, Mr. Herbert, I'm sure 
you can’t mean that. It seems to me one 
of the very worst things in these times 
that they will take us for their models. 
However, I think it is really a good deal 
our fault, and that it comes very much 
from our giving our maids so many of our 
old clothes to wear. That sort of thing 
X^uts notions into their heads. Now, here 
at any rate is one reform, that is imxdied 
ill our Eexniblic ; — I don’t like that word 
Republic, by the way — we must x^nt a stox^ 
to all this imitation of ourselves. Isn’t 
that so, Mr. Laurence ?’ 

‘ Thank you. Lady Ambrose, ’ said Mr. 
Herbert, rising, ‘ thank you. I think it 
altogether a wise — nay, more than wise, 
an essential thing, to keex) these wide 
sx 3 eculations from sx^reading beyond the 
only circles that they are really fitted for. 
I have to go in -doors now, as I have a few 
matters to arrange to-night ; but I am 
much obliged to you all for what you have 
taught me about culture, and enlighten- 
ment, and society, as it ought to be. ’ 


108 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


‘The difficulty is,’ said Lady Ambrose, 
as Mr. Herbert was walking away, ‘how 
to keep all this thought, and so forth, to 
ourselves. One thing I’m quite certain 
of, that 'sve really do a great deal of harm 
without thinking of it, by the way in 
which we speak our minds out before 
servants, and that sort of peojile, without 
in the least considering what may come of 
it. Now, Avhat do you think of this, as a 
plan for making our ideal state a really 
good and contented place ? — the upper 
classes should speak a different language 
from the lower classes. Of course we 
should be able to sjjeak theirs, but they 
would not be able to sjDeak ours. And 
then, you see, they would never hear us 
talk, or read our books, or get hold of our 
ideas ; Avhich, after all, is what does all 
the mischief. And yet,’ said Lady Am- 
brose, with a sigh, ‘ that’s not the great 
difficulty. The great difficulty would be 
about daughters and younger sons, and 
how to give them all enough to keep them 
going in the world. However, this we can 
talk of in a minute. But — ’ here Lady 
Ambrose jjut her hand in her pocket, and 
a sound was heard as of rustling paper. 

‘I really do believe,’ said Laurence, 

‘ that Lady Ambrose Ikxs written a novel, 
although she denies it ; and there she is 
going to read a bit of it now, as a s^jeci- 
men of her own culture. ’ 

‘No,* said Lady Ambrose, ‘really and 
truly. And if I had written a novel, Mr. 
Laurence, I should not have the cruelty 
to inflict it ui3on you. No ; but what I 
have here, ’ she said at last, producing a 
manuscript, ‘though it is not mine, is 
next door to a novel, and in some resijects 
better than one. It is a sort of memoir of 
herself, written by a certain lady I know. 

I am betraying no confidence in showing 
it to you ; as she herself has lent it to a 
good many friends, and as long as her 
name is not mentioned, she is by w'ay of 
wishing to have it circulated. She has, 
in fact, consulted me about having it 


I printed. Now I want you, Mr. Laurence, 
to L ok through some of it, and tell me if 
the writer is not really a person of culture. 
Perhaps you would not mind reading out 
a little of it. ’ 

‘ Am I to read it all through ?’ asked 
Laurence, as he took the seat which Mr. 
Rose gave U23 to him at the table. 

‘No, no,’ said Lady Ambrose. ‘Just 
inck out the best bits — a page here, and a 
23age there. ’ 

‘Well,’ said Laurence, ‘I will, at any 
rate, start with the beginning. Now, are 
all of us ready to be let into the secrets of 
a young lady’s soul ? — 

‘ ‘ ‘ One often feels a longing — who has not 
felt it? — in the hurry and trouble of life^ to 
pause for a little lohile and look hacJc upon 
the which we too too often forget, and 

see what it is we have grown from. We 
long to see how it has fared with ourselves — 
our own selves — our characters.^ 

‘ I think you may ski2) the beginning, ’ 
said Lady Ambrose, ‘it’s a little dull. 
Turn over a page or two.’ 

‘“/low? strangely do they come back to 
me, those distant irrevocable days!'^ Will 
that do ?’ asked Laurence. 

‘Yes,’ said Lady Ambrose, ‘I think 
so — go on there.’ 

‘ ‘ ‘ those distant irrevocable days, when 

the world was all neio to me, and each expe- 
rience was fresh and delightful, and I knew 
nothing of what self-reproach could mean. 
Ah, me ! how times have changed since then ! 
I sometimes fancy that I am hardly worthy 
now to look back upon my own past. I was 
gifted naturally with a curious warmth and 
sincerity of nature, that must have been very 
beautiful. But my peculiar gift, my own, 
own gift, was a of sympathy with 

others, by which quite naturally I used to 
throw myself into their places, undet'stand 
their difficulties, and excite myself with their 
interests. When I was yet quite a child, 
that, I know, is what men felt in me — I never 
cared for boys — 07ie man especially. It uuis 
then that life began for me, and what it all 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


109 


meant broke on me like a revelation. /, in 
my simplicity^ never dreamt of his being 
more than a friend — I am not sure even that 
he was my dearest friend. I certainly never 
tried to charm him. But I did charm him ^ 
nevertheless, quite uncmisciously. And he 
loved me passionately, devotedly, child as I 
was. Ah, God! when %vill another ever feel 
the same for me? And I- — ^0, my lost, my 
rejected friend! come hack to meP sometimes 
I still cry in my solitude ; ^poor, and ob- 
scurely connected as you are, come hack to 
me /’ I shall never forget — poor little me ! — 
the solemn shock of the moment, how my 
heart stood stdl, how all the blood came rush- 
ing into my cheek, when all of a sudden, as 
it seemed to me, and xcithout any warning, 
he asked me to he his wife. Everything 
seemed to grow dizzy before me. It seemed 
to me as if the day of judgment had come. 
( Alas ! will there ever he a day of judgment 
at all? is what I now ask.) I don't know 
what I said. I only remember distinctly my 
throwing myself into my mothei''s arms, and 
crying like a child — and I ivas one — as if 
my very heart would break. ‘ I am only a 
child!' that is what I said. ‘ Oh, mother, I 
am such a child!' The pathos of the scene 
often comes back to me even now — a shadowy 
timid memory, wondering if I shcdl give 
it harbour. I remember, too, how I said 
my prayers that night, and how I asked 
God ” ’ 

‘ I tliink you needn’t read that, ’ said 
Lady Ambrose, ‘go on a page or two 
further. ’ 

“ ^ I spent much of my time sketching." 
Shall I go on there ?’ said Laurence. “ ‘ / 
had always a curiously appreciative eye for 
natural beauty." Will that do ? Or shall 
I go on here — I think this is better — at 
the next paragra23h ? — Oh the great waste 
of love in this our xcorld." ' 

‘Yes, go on there,’ said Mrs. Sinclair 
and several others. 

“ ^Oh the great waste of love in this our 
world! How many a true heart icould have 
given itself to me, could I oidy honestly and 


unreservedly have opened out to it (dl the 
depths of mine, and received it ! A nd why 
did I never do so ? It may be that I have 
knoum none who could really xinder stand, 
me — none that I could really love. But does 
that excuse me, not for not loving them, Imt 
for making as tlumgh I did love them, and so 
ruining their lives and searing my onn ? 
sending them in the end to their brandy-bot- 
tles, and their gaming-hells, and their icild 
Cremornes, and myself — to the mental state 
in ivhich I am no w ! 

“ Hlave I then lost it for ever — lost all 
hope of love? and must I quietly take up 
with my unapprecicded loneliness? If it is 
so — if, indeed, it is so, surely I have brought 
it on myself. Was there not one — not my 
earliest lover — but another, who 'urith a devo- 
tion I understood far more fidly, laid him- 
self at my feet, and offei'ed me (dl his man's 
devotion, and his man's sympathy! Why, 
why in my madness did I send him from 
me, penniless as he xcas — bid wind of tlicd ? — 
driving him to death, and leaving myself to 
desolation ? How does the image of his pale 
still face upturned towards the Indian star- 
light, with eyes which no star-light could ever 
touch any more, rise before me — his hand on 
his breast,' and clasping with its last grasp a 
locket with my picture in it ! Yes, I see him 
that'e, though I did not see him. I know 
how he must have looked, loitli his heart bul- 
let-pieci'ced — noble, beautiful in death. Un- 
worthy as I was of you, my true-hearted one, 
too late, too late, did I learn my own un- 
worthiness. I loas sitting hi the window of 
our house at Ventnor, when the letter came 
that told me. It was evening ; and I had 
been looking out through the summer twilight 
cd the sea and at the sunset. As I read the 
letter, it dropped frcnn my hand. I gave a 
gasp. I repressed a shrill cry. I felt a 
choking sensation in my throat ; but I was 
very proud, and I even repressed a sob. I 
only, with entire calmness, turned my head 
towards the sea, and sighed a sigh deep- 
drawn as if my soul were in it. My cheek 
was pale, my eyes icere wild and wistful — 


110 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


fall of a solemn earnestness. What 

the e.ract thoughts were that were busy in me 
I cannot tell. All I am conscious of was this, 
that far, far off were the great crimson spaces 
of evening shy, and a tnui of rippled splen- 
dour on the sea. One great violet cloud 
fringed with a bordtT of living fire, that 
seemed to be eating into it, hung just above 
the place where the sun had gone down ; and 
over this, in a pale liquid solitude of hushed 
colour, was the evening star, trembling like a 
tear-drop. I was always sensitive to colour ; 
and somehow or other this sunset relieved 
me — went right to my heart with a quiet 
sense of healing. That evening was, I think, 
one of the great p)oints in my life. I seemed 
ever after to see my own character' more 
clearly — hoio deep were my own caqmciiies 
for feeling, and also how straiigely Nature 
could enter in and comfort me, when all hu- 
man sympathy would have seemed intrusive. 
That wight, when I went up sUdrs, I hardly 
knew myself. There was a wild look in my 
eyes — an inexqrressible mournfubtess and an 
inexpressible longing. Two or three long 
tendrils of hair had got loose, and hung over 
my forehead with a kind of wild languor. 

‘ Wlwt is there that men can see in me to 
attract them?'" I had often said to myself. I 
thi/ik then a something of what it nuts, began 
to dau'n upon me. ‘ A)id he — he, the true, 
the gallant, the devoted — he has lost all this,' 
I gasped, turning away from the glass ; and 
throiving myself on my knees by the bed, the 
sob I had so long suppressed broke forth, 

and I tried to pray ” li’m^ — and so on, 

and so on, and so on ’ 

‘ You needn’t read all tliose bits about 
tlie ju-ayers, ’ said Lady Ambrose. ‘ I don’t 
think it is quite reverent. ’ 

‘Well,’ said Laurence, ‘here’s a new 
stage of her life. Let us go on here. 
“ And now, from the bleidc desolation of my 
present existence, I peer wistfully out on all 
sides, and see if any will bring the love to 
me that I so much crave for." ’ 

‘ Poor thing !’ said Mrs. Sinclair, with a 
little sigh. 


‘I’m afraid,’ said Lady Ambrose, ‘I 
must mention, by the way, that the lady 
is married, and remarkably well married, 
too. ’ 

^ Here in the old house until its quiet 
gabies," Laurence went on reading, “/ 
sit in my own room, and watch the sunset ' 
dying away over the yellowing autumn 
woods, itself the colour of a belated autumn 
leaf. I watch it alone — yes, thank heaven, 
alone. I manage to steal for an hour or two 
away from those qyeople of whom the house 
is full. Who is there amongst them that 
can unde7'sta)id me ? whose sqnrit meets mine 
on equal terms? I laugh with them, I talk ■ 
with them, I jest with them, and they think 
they know me. But ah! the weariness^ the 
far-offness cf it all ” ’ 

‘It is entirely her own fault,’ said Lady 
x\mbrose, ‘ that she has these j^eople here. 
Her husband is devoted to the country 
and the turnips for their own sake, and 
would never see a soul but a few of the 
neighbouring squires and i^arsons, if she 
did not make him. In London, you know, 
she is nearly always by herself. At least, ’ 
Lady Ambrose added, ‘ he’s very rarely 
Avith her. ’ 

‘ A little further on, ’ said Laurence, ‘ it 
seems that all the. visitors have gone ; and 
she has been to pay a visit to the i)arsop’s 
Avife. ’ 

‘You may be sure she Avas quite by her- 
self if she did that, ’ said Lady Ambrose. 

‘Here,’ Laurence continued, ‘is a de- 
scrii)tion of the visit. ^AVhat sweet eyes 
the little thing had ! What a look of tr ust- 
fulness in her. face! A good and pure, and 
therefore a happy woman, if ever th&i'e was 
one. What a trust in those eyes of Im's ! 
What an innocence ! What a sweet content ! 
There is no purqde shadow of care under her 
eyes — (people say I darken mine artificially. 
Alas! heaven knows there is little need for 
me to do that ! ) Thei'e is no secret trouble 
disc&i'nible in her Ips — no languor in her 
air ! WJiat does she know of life, with its 
troubles, its distractions, its sins ? Ah ! 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


Ill 


ioere I hut like her — /, world- worn and 
wmid-weary, sickened with poinps, and 
vanities^ and soiled affections, and hollow 
homage — were I but worthy that she should 
talk to me! ^ Bond talk to me,' I felt in- 
clined to say. ‘ You wouldn't if you knew — 
if you could know ! Oh, how far better are 
you than I! You Utile dream when I show 
myself demurely in my seat in the village 
church, bowing at the Glorias, or kneeling 
with my face hid in my hands, you little 
imagine what a woman you see there. You 
little dream what strange thoughts unbidden 
mix ihertnselves up for me xcith the hymn- 
music; what wild regrets, what bitter rev- 
eries, u'liat strange scenes ..and figures, fill my 
mind as 1 kneel before the Communion-table. 
Why could I not have been content like you 
with a cpiiet lot, a toiling honest husband like 
you ? Is there not somethmg holy, even in ' 
h is dull sermons, if you only look on them in 
the lovely light of duty ? Why does my heart 
vibrate with the troubled wailing music of 
many sori'o ws, many longings, of which you 
do not even dream the existence ? Oh ! what 
a far higher, far nobl&i' woman are you than 
I, in every way !" ' 

‘ And now, ’ said Lady Ambrose, seeing 
that Laurence bad shut the book, ‘ I want 
to know if all tliis is a specimen of culiure, 
and if you would call the writer a culti- 
vated person ; because she is really one of 
the most delightful peoj)le I know to talk 
to ; and if this is wdiat you call culture — 
though I think, in her case, it’s a little bit 
alfected, you know — but then she never 
lets you see all this when you talk to 
her — I do quite from the bottom of my 
heart give uj^ about culture being prig- 
gish, and bookish, and all that ; and 
since, as you say, it really must include 
religion, I don’t see what we could wish 
for more, to make life — humanly speak- 
ing — i)erfect. Of course we shall do good 
sometime^ — I mean, not forget the poor — 
there’s something so wretchedly heartless 
in that, I think. And then, too, poli- 
tics ’ 


^Yes,’ repeated Allen, ‘politics ’ 

‘ Of course, ’ said Lady Ambrose, ‘ it is 
necessary that some of us should look af- 
ter politics, because if we did not, some- 
body else would. But still — (are you a 
Liberal, Lord iUlen ?) — but still, within 
a limit, I think the less we meddle, the 
better. ’ 

‘ Much, Lady Ambrose, ’ said Mr. Piose, 
wdio had been somewhat put out by this 
digression, ‘ much is, no doubt, to be got 
over in your friend’s style ; nor do I think 
the culture displayed in her memoirs, 
even apart from that ’ 

‘ Oh, but you must’nt judge her only l)y 
her writings, ’ said Lady Ambrose. ‘ When 
you meet her, she is not a bit like them.’ 

‘Amateurs in writing rarely are,’ said 
Laurence. ‘ Their writings are siinidy the 
foot-notes of their lives, where they tell 
you what they have not skill enough to 
bring into the text. ’ 

‘ She draws beautifully,’ Lady Ambrose 
went on, ‘ and is really the brightest of 
creatures — so witty, and with such a sense 
of tiie ridiculous ! And really, to hear her 
tell a bit of scandal — not that I at all ap- 
prove of scandal myself — I always think 
it’s so uncharitable ’ 

‘Ah,’ said Donald Gordon, gently, ‘I 
have the very highest oi:>inion of scandal. 
It is founded on the most sacred of things 
— that is. Truth, and it is built up by the 
most beautiful of things — that is. Imag- 
ination.’ 

‘Well, Mr. Gordon,’ said Lady Am- 
brose, smiling, ‘ we won’t talk about that 
now. But as for what you say about style, 
Mr. Bose, it is rather jerky, and so forth, 
I admit. However, that’s the way with us 
women. Indeed, I often think that if 
women had invented language, it would 
have consisted mainly of interjections, and 
that its only stojD would have been a note 
of exclamation.’ 

Mr. Bose was much annoyed at these 
interruptions. 

‘I wanted to say,’ ho went ^ on, as soon 


112 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


as Lady Ambrose had ceased, ‘that I 
think your friend’s memoirs more in- 
structive from their very shortcomings, 
as showing how the human mind — even 
if not excex>tionally gifted — has come to 
he an organism of increased delicacy and 
caj^acity, excei3t wlien stunted by the 
necessity of work, or of occnj^ation that is 
otlier than vohintary, and chosen for any 
object beyond itself. You have here, you 
see, that same modern sense of the blend- 
ing together of the outer and inner worlds ; 
there is the same delicate discrimination 
between the testhetic asi:)ects of the differ- 
ent stages of life, and the nice gradation 
of moral colours : there is the same fine 
self-consciousness, and consequent endeav- 
our to give tone and quality to her memo- 
ries as they j^ass by her, in exquisite and 
comiffex ways. ’ 

‘Yes,’ exclaimed Leslie, suddenly, who 
had si3oken but little all the evening, 

‘ here, I think, is the crowning work of 
culture. It teaches each of us to look 
back uj^on his own life, with all its wants, 
its relations, and its i^ossibilities, all its 
wasted hours and its affections trifled 
away or degraded — it teaches us to look 
back ux)on all this with quite a new kind 
of discrimination. The beauty of youth, 
with all its buoyancy and innocence, 
wakes in us of the modern world a more 
wistful and solemn regret ; ^ve are more 
keenly alive to the pathos of failure ; to 
the sadness of the cold shadows that will 
often darken the whole inward landscaj^e, 
and the ravage made by the storms that 
will sometimes l>reak over it ; and to the 
gleams of sunshine fitfully re-ax)X3earing, 
often only touching its distant words. 
And the charm of this is, ’ Leslie went on, 
with a short laugh, ‘ that however dis- 
astrous our lives may have been, whatever 
shii3wreck we may have made of ourselves | 
or others, let us only look back 'On tliis 
with the eyes of culture, Avhilst “c.s wied- 
ei'lioU die Klage des Lehens lahyrintlmcli 
irren and the whole retrosi3ect be- 


comes a delightful X3icture, the more im- 
pressive and suggestive from its landslips, 
its broken roads, and its waste i3laces. I 
really think one is rei)aid for having made 
oneself quite lonely, and deserted, and 
friendless, by the i)leasure one gets from 
contemiffating one’s ov n situation.’ 

‘I cannot bear that man,’ whispered 
Lady Ambrose to Miss Merton. ‘ Didn’t 
you notice the nasty way in which all that 
was said ? But — good gracious, Mr. Lau- 
rence, what is that bell ringing for in the 
house ? Is that for us to leave off talk- 
ing ? We have not half done yet.’ 

Laurence smiled, and looked a little 
shy, and murmured that he did not think 
it 'was so late. ‘I don’t know whether 
you’ll mind,’ he said at last, ‘but our 
Kector is going to give us a little evening 
service. He i3roi30sed it this afternoon in 
the garden, and I could not well refuse. ’ 

‘ Mind it !’ exclaimed Lady Ambrose. 
‘ I should think not. ’ 

‘ Service !’ said Dr. Jenkinson briskly ; 
‘ yes, come and let us go to that. I think,’ 
he said, looking round him, ‘ that you will 
find the religion we have is the best for us 
at i3resent. I think so. And Christianity , ’ 
he added, turning to Mr. Stockton, ‘ real- 
ly embraces all religions, even any honest 
denial of itself. ’ 

There was now a general movement 
towards the house. 

‘ I’m afraid, ’ said Mrs. Sinclair to Les- 
lie, ‘that you’re not of a very hai3i3y 
disi30sition. You don’t look hai3i3y, some- 
how. And yet I think you might be, 
if you only tried. I sui3X30se you're not 
out of si3irits like Mr. Laurence, be- 
cause you don’t believe in the Trinity, 
are you ? Just look at the sea now. 
Isn’t that beautiful ? Don’t you care 
for that ? But I, you know, ’ she added 
I with a sigh, ‘ disagree with Mr. Luke. 
I want the notion of a personal deity, 
to make n^e enjoy nature. I want my 
thought to pass away to him. But I 
don’t mean a vague deity ; but some one 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


113 


whom I have myself made a deity, and 
who, tlierefore, I can he quite sure exists 
— do you see ?’ 

‘My dear,’ said Lady Ambrose again to 
Miss Merton, ‘ I really cannot bear Mr. 
Leslie. I feel quite sure he’s a bad man. 
And the way he sneers and laughs at 
things does go so against me I wouldn’t 
have that man inside my house, do you 
know, for anything. I know you don’t 
think so ; but then you Roman Catholics 
believe so much, you can afford to be 
liberal. Not that I myself am at all 
bigoted ; indeed, the one thing I think we 
want is toleration and charity. And do 
you know, my dear, ’ Lady Ambrose added 
as they were entering the house, ‘ I have 
a set of eight cousins, all unmarried ; and 
when I look at those girls’ faces, I do 
confess, my dear, that I positively wish 
your religion was true ; for then they 
could all go into convents. One doesn’t 
like those half-and-half Protestant things, 
you know. ’ 

J list at this moment, emerging from the 
house, pale and disappointed, appeared 
the figure of Mr. Saunders. 

‘ It is thrown! away, ’ he exclaimed ; ‘ my 
disproof of God’s existence. The under- 
housemaid did it ! lam jileased to dis- 
cover, however, that she previously read 
through a part ; so it has not perished, I 
trust, without emancij)ating one spirit. 
What ! are you all going indoors ?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Storks, laying his arm 
on Mr. Saunders’s shoulder ; ‘ and you 
had better come too. Young man,’ he 
said in a voice of commanding kindness, 
‘ you should never in this virulent way 
deny God’s existence. What rational man 
believes in it ?’ 

‘ I was looking before dinner,’ said Mr. 
Rose, wdio w ith Laurence w^as bringing 
up the rear, ‘ at the books in your uncle'’s 
pavilion in the garden; and I saw there, 
in a closed case, a copy of the “ Cultes 
secrets des Dames Romaines.” ’ 

8 


‘ Well ?’ said Laurence a little stiffly. 
‘ It has been locked up for years. ’ 

‘ I conceived as much,’ said Mr. Rose, 
gently. ‘ As you do not seem to set much 
store by the work, I will give you thirty 
pounds for it. ’ 


BOOK V. 

CHAPTER I. 

Once more the theatre was brightly 
liglitetT ; and once more the congregation 
was assembled in the tier of boxes. There 
was not so much excitement as there had 
been in the morning ; indeed, the reserved 
decorum that reigned might have been 
said to partake almost of the nature of 
apathy. When, however. Dr. Seydon en- 
tered, none could deny that he did indeed 
look a reverend man ; and the very aspect 
of the place seemed to grow devotional at 
his presence. Lady Ambrose perceived 
with a full heart that he w^as duly habited 
in a surplice ; and her bosom warmed wuth 
a sense of safety ^nd of comfort as he took 
his place and solemnly produced his pray- 
er-book. Nor was Lady Ambrose alone in 
this sudden stir of feeling. There w^as an- 
other of the worshippers who was moved 
even more strongly, though in a slightly 
different w^ay. Many starts had been giv- 
en on the stage in that theatre ; but none 
of these, it may be safely said, ever equal- 
led one now given in the boxes, as Dr. 
Jenkinson, who had been kneeling with 
his face hid in his hands, raised his eyes, 
and saw for the first time who it w^as con- 
fronting him — no obscure rural clergyman 
as he had anticipated, but that illiberal 
apologist of superstition, wdiose officious 
bigotry had robbed the Upper House of 
its most enlightened spiritual peer. Dr. 
Jenkinson, however, with the heroism of 
a true martyr, suffered bravely for his faith 


114 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


in the comprehensiveness of Christianity. 
His face assumed, in another moment, an 
expression of cherubic suavity ; in his 
gentlest and devoutest tones he was soon 
taking his part in the whole service, and 
that too with such an exquisite clearness 
of articulation, that, amongst the confused 
murmurs of the rest, the entire evening 
office sounded like a duet between him 
and Dr. Seydon. It is true that there was 
something in the ring of this one audible 
voice that gave the latter a sense of some- 
thing being wrong somewhere ; but lucki- 
ly, being a little shortsighted, he could 
not recognise the owner of it ; and Dr. 
Jenkinson, feeling no manner of^all to 
endure the sermon, retired furtively as 
soon as the prayers were over. 

‘ Weren’t they read beautifully !’ said 
Lady Ambrose to Lady Grace in a whisper. 

* Oh, how glad I shall be to hear him 
preach once again !* she added, as Dr. 
Seydon, having risen from his knees, re- 
tired, his hands clasped before him, 
through the side door. Lady Ambrose, 
however, was entirely alone in this glad- 
ness. Most of the others dreaded the ser- 
mon that was imminent, and some even 
meditated following Dr. Jenkinson. But 
events were too quick for them. Hardly, 
it seemed, had Dr. Seydon left the stalls, 
than the curtain drew rapidly up, and dis- 
played again the gorge in the Indian Cau- 
casus, only with a preacher in it very dif- 
ferent from the one who had stood there 
in the morning. The whole congregation 
gave a sudden gasp of surprise. It was 
not Dr. Seydon that they saw. It was 
Mr. Herbert. 

With a gracious gravity he advanced to- 
wards the footlights ; and made a slight 
bow to the house — a bow of depreciation 
and apology. 

‘ A little while ago, in the garden,’ he 
said, ‘ I confessed to our kind host, Mr. 
Laurence, that there were a few things that 
I should like quietly to say to you ; and 
Mr. Laurence has become sponsor for you 


all, and has promised, in your names, that 
you would suffer me to say them here. It 
is true, ’ Mr. Herbert w ent on, w ith a smile 
and a w^ave of his hand, ‘ that when I look 
round me at this glittering semicircle, I 
begin to feel not a little shy of you, and 
to repent of my own temerity. You, how'- 
ever, have given me to-day so much good 
food for reflection, that I feel bound, in 
the commonest honesty, to make wffiat 
poor return I can. So remember, that if 
I weary you, you have really brought it 
upon yourselves. 

‘Well — to begin, then. You think me 
— you need not deny it, for I know you 
think me — a somewhat crotchety and 
melancholy individual, averse to modern 
knowledge and to modern progress, and 
seeing, as a rule, everything very yellow 
indeed, wdth his jaundiced eyes. But I 
think myself that I am not by any means 
so obstinate and so wrong-headed as I am 
quite aware that I appear to you ; nay, my 
own opinion is that I err, rather, in not 
being quite obstinate enough. It is true 
that I have persistently pointed out that 
England is at present given over wholly 
to ignoble pursuits, and is ruining herself 
with deadly industries. But I have never 
said hitherto, so far as I know, that we 
might not rally, and that a brighter future 
might not be in store for us. Nay, I 
hailed a piece of neW'S to-day with the 
most unfeigned delight, which seemed an 
omen to me that such a brighter future 
actually w^as in store for us. In a pai3er 
that reached me this afternoon there was 
a letter on the prospects of the English 
iron trade ; and I read in that letter that 
nineteen foundries in Middlesborough 
have been closed within the last three 
months, and the Moloch fires in their 
blast-furnaces extinguished ; that ten more 
foundries in the same place are scarcely 
able to continue work, and must very 
shortly be closed likewise ; and that the 
dense smoke-cloud that so long has dark- 
ened that whole country is beginning to 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


115 


# 


clear away, and will open ere long upon 
astonished human eyes, that have never 
yet beheld it, the liquid melted blue of the 
deep wells of the sky. It is quite true 
that this indication of a reviving pros- 
perity for our country suggests more than 
it proves. But at any rate, it put me this 
afternoon, when I joined your party, into 
quite a right and hopeful mood for ap- 
preciating your conceptions of a better 
order of things. It is in fact simply to 
explain my appreciation that I am, in this 
most unconscionable way, now detaining 
you. 

‘ Let me say in the first place, then, how 
profoundly right I consider the manner in 
which you set to work. For it is one of 
the most vital of all truths, that in a i3er- 
fect state all the parts will be perfect ; and 
that if the highest classes be as good as 
they can be, so also will be all the other 
classes. And I want to tell you, in the 
next place, how entirely fair and lovely 
did all the elements seem to be, out of 
which you composed for your higher classes 
their ideal existence. For you gave them 
every outward grace that could adorn 
life, and every inward taste and emotion 
that could enrich it, and every species 
of intellectual activity that could stimu- 
late it. Your society was indeed to be 
truly the crhne de la crhne : it was to be 
made beautiful, and profound, and brill- 
iant, by lovers, and theologians, and wits, 
and men of science, and poets, and philoso- 
phers, and humourists — all men and wom- 
en of the world, and fit to live in society, 
as well as to educate it. This would in- 
deed be, as was said at dinner. Home and 
Athens and Florence, at their best, and let 
me add Paris also, united and reanimated, 
and enriched by the possession of yet 
wdder knowledge, and the possibilities of 
freer speculation. That truly is a daz- 
zling picture. But even that is not all. 
There was your city itself too, of which a 
lovely glimpse was given us, with its 
groves, its gardens, its palaces, and its 


exquisite reproductions of the world’s no- 
blest architectures ; and all this under our 
softest English skies, and by our bluest 
English seas. Ah,’ exclaimed Mr. Her- 
bert, smiling, and clasping his hands gent- 
ly, ‘ how I should like to live in a city like 
that ! I can literally see it now with my 
mind’s eye, whilst I am talking. I see its 
private houses, with their wonders of 
wrought marble ; I see its theatres, its 
museums, its chapels and churches of all 
denominations, its scientific lecture rooms, 
and its convents. For what strikes me 
more forcibly than anything, is that all 
forms of faith and philosophy seem to 
find here an impartial home, and to unite 
in animating one harmonious social life. 
In fact, so vividly do I see this scene 
which your words have called ui^ before 
me, that I want very much, if you will 
let me, to add one small feature to it, my- 
self. It is a very humble detail, this of 
mine. In the eyes of the men of science, 
who lead modern thought, it is simply a 
sanitary matter. It relates to the way in 
which you shall dispose of your dead. 
Now in this, at least, you will be surprised 
to hear I quite keep pace with the times, 
being a sincere advocate for cremation ; 
and what I should want to do in your city 
would be to supply it with an establish- 
ment, hidden underground, where the 
bodies of the dead should be turned into 
gas, in properly devised retorts ; the gas 
from each body being received in a small 
separate gasometer. Above these gas- 
works, and amongst your fair towers and 
spires, and your superb institutions, and 
art-galleries, I would build a circular- 
domed temple of umbred marble, blind 
and blank uj^on the face of it, without 
carved work, and without window ; only 
there should be written above the portal, 
not as in Dante’s vision, 

Per me si va nell’ eterno dolore, 

Per me si va tra la perduta gente — 

but one verse out of our English transla- 


116 


THE NEW EEPUBLIC. 


tion of the Bible, for women and little 
children to read ; and another verse out 
of a Latin i:>oet, which is, I believe, an 
equivalent for the original of that transla- 
tion, for men and scholars to read. The 
first should be, “ Though after my skin 
worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh 
shall I see God. ” And the other ; 

Quferis quo jaceas post obitum loco? 

Quo non nata jacent. 

And within, around the dark walls, should 
be a number of separate shrines, like — to 
use the simile that Dante would have 
chosen — the stalls in a great stable; and 
to each shrine there should be a separate 
gas-jet. And when the life of any was 
over, after the fire had done its work upon 
the dead body, that man or woman who 
felt most bitterly the loss of the one that 
had been, should repair to this temi^le, to 
an appointed shrine, and there, in silence 
kneeling before it, should light the gas- 
jet ; and thus evoking for the last time 
that wdiicli 'was once so loved and loving, 
pass, with what thoughts might be, a 
brief vigil before it, till its flicker grew 
slowly faint upon the watcher’s face, and 
at length it went out and ended utterly 
and for ever. And above, over these 
sanctuaries of bereavement and final leave- 
taking, there should hang from the domed 
roof one rude iron lamp, always burning — 
casting a pale flare upwards upon the dark- 
ness. This would be the common lamp of 
the poor, for whose sake, dying, no one 
felt bereavement, or whom no one at any 
rate could find time to say good-bye to ; 
but who thus united together, apart by 
themselves, would do all that w^ould be at 
all seemly in them — would remind you 
mutely and unobtrusively by their joint 
light, that one thing at least they shared 
with you, namely, death. It is not of the 
j)oor, however, that I am mainly thinking 
now. It is of your higher classes, who 
have leisure to feel sorrow and all its holy 
influences. And these, I say, would find 


in this simple funeral service one that 
would meet all their diverse needs, and be 
in tune with all their diverse feelings. It 
would suit all. For to some it would 
symbolise an absolute disbelief in any life 
beyond ; and to all the rest it would sym- 
bolise a bewildered doubt about any life 
beyond. For in one or the other of these 
states of mind eveiyone would be. 

‘Do 3"ou deny it ?’ exclaimed Mr. Her- 
bert, raising his voiqg suddenly, and look- 
ing round the theatre with a passionate 
anger, at which the whole audience were 
literally electrified. ‘Do you deny it ?’ 
he exclaimed. ‘ I tell you that it is so. I 
tell you too, that that is your own case, 
and that in your Utopia you have aggra- 
vated the evil, and have not remedied it. 
You are all deniers or doubters, I tell you, 
every one of you. The deniers, I know, 
w'ill not contradict me ; so at present I 
need not sj^eak to them. It is to you — 
the majority, you who will contradict me ; 
you who are so busy with your various 
affirmations, — with your prayers, your 
churches, your philosophies, your revi- 
vals of old Christianities, or your new im- 
provements on them ; with your love of 
justice, and humanity, and toleration ; it 
is to you that I speak. It is to you that I 
say that, however enlightened and how- 
ever sure you may be about all other mat- 
ters, you are darkened and uncertain as to 
this — whether there really is any God at 
all who can hear all the prayers you utter 
to Him, or whether there really is any 
other life at all, where the aspirations you 
are so proud of will be realised, and where 
the wrongs you are so pitiful over will be 
righted. There is not one amongst you 
who, watching a dead friend, flickering 
for the last time before you in the form of 
a gas-flame, and seeing how a little while, 
and this flame was with you, and again a 
little while and it was not with you, would 
be at all sure whether this was really be- 
cause, as your hearts would suggest to 
you, it went to the Father, or because, as 


THE NEW EEFUBLIC. 


117 


your men of science would assert to you, 
it went simply — out. 

‘ Listen to me for a moment, and I can 
prove that this is so, to you. You are rich, 
and you have leisure to think of things in 
what light you will, and your life is to a 
great extent made easy for you by the 
labour of others. I do not complain of 
that. There can be no civilisation with- 
out order, and tliere can be no order with- 
out subordination. Outward goods must 
be ai)portioned unequally, or there would 
be no outward goods to ai 3 i 3 ortion. But 
you who have the larger share of these are 
bound to do something for those who have 
the less. I say you are hoiuid to do so ; 
or else sooner or later that larger share 
will be taken away from you. Well, and 
what, is it you propose to do ? I know 
your answer — I have heard it a thousand 
times. You will educate them — you will 
teach them. And truly, if you know how 
to do that properly, you will have done all 
you need do. But,’ exclaimed Mr. Her- 
bert, his voice again rising, and quivering 
' with excitement, ‘ that is just what you do 
not know. I am not casting my words at 
random. Out of your own mouths will I 
judge you. There never was a time when 
you talked so much as now about teaching 
the 2^eox)le, and yet do not you yourselves 
confess that you cannot agree together as 
to what to teach them ? You can agree 
about teaching them — I know this . too 
well — countless things that you think will 
throw light ujmn life ; but life itself you 
leave a blank darkness ui)on which no 
light can be thrown. You say nothing of 
-what is good in it, and of what is evil. 
Does success in it lie in the enjoyment of 
bodily 2)leasures, or in the doing of sj^irit- 
ual duty ? Is there anything in it that is 
right for its own sake, or are all things 
right only because of their consequences ? 
And seeing that, if we struggle for virtue, 
our struggles can never be quite success- 
ful here, is there any other 2)lace Avhere 
they may have, I do not say their reAvard, 


but their consummation ? To these ques- 
tions only two ans Avers can be giA^en, and 
one must be entirely true, and the other 
entirely false. But you — you dare not give 
either ; you are too enlightened. It is true 
that you can afford to be liberal about these 
matters ; you can afford to consider truth 
and falsehood equally tolerable. But for the 
poor man, surely it is not so. It must 
make some difference to him Avliat you 
teach him, Avhethcr your teaching is to 
ojjen his eyes to his God and to his duty, 
and so place his noblest haj^piness in his 
OAvn hands, or Avhether it is to open his 
eyes to those Utilitarian 2)rinciides 

from Avhich he Avill learn that his own life 
and labour are only not utterly contem2)ti- 
ble, because they conduce to a material 
Avell-being in AA'hicli he himself can have 
no share. If, Avith entire belief yourseh^es, 
you are 2>i'ei^a'i’ed to gEe him the former 
teaching, Avhy then it is Avell and good 
both for him and you. But if not, beAvare 
of teaching him at all. You Avill but be 
removing a cataract from his mind’s eye 
that he may stare aghast and 2>iteous at 
his OAvn 2 >overty and nakedness, or that ho 
may gaze Avith a Avild beast’s hunger at 
your OAvn truly noble 2 )ros 2 )ority Avhich ho 
can never taste, save in the Avild beast’s 
way. 

‘ But enough of the 2 ^ 001 * ; enough of 
this division of ha232>iness. Let me ask 
you to consider noAv Avhat sort of ha2)23i- 
ness there is to divide — I sav divide, mean- 
ing that you Avill get the Avhole of it. And 
as I have said before, this ha 2 )piness is 
very fair in seeming. IvnoAvledge, and 
culture, and freedom, and toleration — you 
liaA^e told us Avhat fine things all these can 
do for you. And I admit it myself too ; I 
feel it myself too. Lovely, indeed, to look 
1123011 are the faiths, the 23hiloso23hies, the 
enthusiasms of the Avoiid — the ancient 
products of the ages — as the sunshine of 
the modern intellect falls on them. See, 
they look clearer, and brighter, and more 
trans23arent — see, they form themselves 


118 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


into more exquisite and lucid shapes, | 
-more aerial structures. But wliv ? Do 
not deceive yourselves ; it is for a terrible 
reason. It is because, like a fabric of 
snow, they are one and all dissolving. 

‘ Listen, and I will show you that this 
is so. Aristotle says that what is truly a 
man’s Self is the thinking part of him. 
This sooner or later all the other parts 
obey — sooner or later, willingly or unwil- 
lingly ; and if this Self be base, the whole 
man will be base ; if the Self be noble, the 
whole man will be noble. And as it is 
wuth the individual man, so it is with the 
ages and the generations. They obey their 
several Selves, whatever these Selves may 
be. The world once had a Self whose 
chief spokesman was a Jewish peasant call- 
ed Jesus ; and sooner or later the world 
followed him. Later on, it had a Self 
whose chief spokesmen Avere Dominies or 
Luthers or Loyolas ; and in like manner 
the Avorld followed them. Later still, it 
had got another Self, and the chief spokes- 
men of this were Yoltaires and Rousseaus. 
And in each case the world Avas conAunced 
at heart, consciously or unconsciously, 
that the vutal truths of life Avere to be 
sought for onW Avhere these Selves sought 
f(- them. With Jesus and Avith Luther it 
sought them in duty and in a turning to 
the true God ; Avith Voltaire and Rousseau, 
in justice, and in a turning from the false 
God. And noAv, Avhere do you seek them? 
Where does the Self of your age seek 
them — your Self, that thinking part of 
you before which you all either quail or 
Avorship ? Does it seek them either in 
justice, or loAung-kindiiess, or in the vis- 
ion of the most high God ! No — but in 
the rotting bodies of dead men, or in the 
Avrithing bodies of live cats. And in your 
peiq^lexity, and amazed despair, ever and 
again you cry to it. What shall A\^e do to 
be saved ? ShoAv us the Father ! Show 
us the high and holy One that inhabiteth 
Eternity ! And what does your Self an- 
swer you ? It ansAA^ers you Avith a laugh. 


“There is no high and holy One at all. 
How say ye then to me, SIioav us the Fath- 
er ? For the Earth saith. He is not with 
me ; and the depth saith. He is not Avith me ; 
and our filthy phials of decaying matter 
say. He is not Avith us. Argal, ye pocfr 
foolish seekers. He is nowhere.” You 
may try to escape from your oavu Self, but 
you cannot ; you may try to forget its an- 
SAver, but you cannot. . Loudly- you may 
affirm Avith your lips ; but the importunate 
denial is ever at your heart. Patrice quis 
exfiul se quoque fugii? 

‘ What do you do then in this perplexi- 
ty — this halting betAveen tAvo opinions ? 
Why, you do this. You try to persuade 
yourselves that neither opinion is of much 
moment — that the question cannot be de- 
cided absolutely — that it should not be 
decided absolutely — in fact, that it is one 
of your chief glories that you leave it un- 
decided. But I tell you, in that case, that 
though you say you are rich, and increased 
Avitli goods, and have need of nothing, you 
are, in reality, wretched, and miserable, 
and poor, and blind, and naked. I am 
not casting my words at random. Again 
out of your OAvn mouths will I judge you. 
All your culture, you say, is based ulti- 
mately upon this — a discrimination be- 
tween right and Avrong. True, profound- 
ly true. But aa ill you be able to say Avhat 
is right and Avhat is wrong any longer, if 
you don’t knoAv/or ivliom anything is right 
and for whom anything is Avrong — Avhether 
it is for men Avith immortal souls, or only 
Avith mortal bodies — Avho are only a little 
loAver than the angels, or only a little better 
than the pigs ? Whilst you can still con- 
trive to doubt upon this matter, AAdiilst the 
fabric of the old faith is still dissolving 
only, life still for you, the enlightened 
feAv, may preserve Avhat happiness it has 
noAV. But Avhen the old fabric is all dis- 
solved, Avhat then ? When all divinity 
shall have gone from love and heroism, 
and only utility and pleasure shall be left, 
Avhat then ? Then you Avill liaA^e to con- 


THE NEW BEPUBLIC. 


119 


tent yourselves with complete denial ; or 
build uj) again the faith that you have just 
pulled down — you will have to be born 
again, and to seek for a new Self. 

‘But suppose we accept denial, you will 
say, what then ? Many deniers have lived 
noble lives, though they have looked neith- 
er for a God nor for a heaven. Think of 
Greece, you will say to me, and that will 
answer you. No— but th^t is not so, and 
tliat will not answer me. The Greeks 
never, in your sense, denied God ; they 
never, in your sense, denied eternal life — 
^ never, because they never knew them. 
They felt God only ; they felt him uncon- 
sciously ; and in denying the God they 
knew, they w^ere really affirming the God 
they felt. But you — do not you deceive 
yourselves. Do not think you can ever 
again be as the Greeks. The world’s prog- 
ress has a twofold motion. History moves 
onAvards round some undiscovered centre, 
as well as round what you consider its dis- 
coverd axis ; and though it seems to repeat 
itself, it never can repeat itself. The Athe- 
ism of the modern world is not the Athe- 
ism of the ancient : the long black night 
of the winter is not the swift clear night 
of the vanished summer. The Greek phi- 
losopher could not darken his life, for he 
knew not from what mysterious source the 
light fell upon it. The modern philoso- 
pher does know, and he knows that it is 
called God, and thus knowing the source 
of light he can at once quench it. 

‘What will be left you then if this 
light be quenched ? Will art, will paint- 
ing, will poetry be any comfort to you ? 
You have said tliat these were magic 
mirrors which reflected back your life 
for you. Well — wull they be any bet- 
ter than the glass mirrors in your draw- 
ing-rooms, if they have nothing but the 
same listless orgy to reflect ? For that is 
all that will be at last in store for you ; 
nay, that is the best thing that jiossibly 
can be in store for you ; the only alterna- 
tive being not a listless orgy for the few, | 


but an undreamed-of anarchy for all. I 
do not fear that, however. Some will be 
always strong, and some ^vill be always 
weak ; and though, if there is no God, no 
divine and fatherly source of order, there 
will be, trust me, no aristocracies, there 
will still be tyrannies. There will still 
be rich and poor ; and that wall then 
mean haj)py and miserable ; and the 
poor wull be — as I sometimes think they 
are already — but a mass of groaning 
machinery, without even the semblance of 
rationality ; and the rich, wuth only the 
semblance of it, but a set of gaudy, danc- 
ing marionettes, wdiich it is the machin- 
ery’s one work to keep in motion. 

‘ What, then, shall you do to be saved ? 
Bend your hearts, I say, and do not mend 
your garments. Seek God earnestly, and 
peradventure you may still find Him — and 
I — even I may find Him also. For I — who 
am I that speak to you ? Am I a believer ? 
No, I am a doubter too. Once I could 
pray every morning, and go forth to my 
day’s labour stayed and comforted. But 
now I can pray no longer. You have tak- 
en my God away from me, and I know not 
where you have laid him. My only conso- 
lation in niy misery is that at least I am 
inconsolable for His loss. Yes, ’ cried Mr. 
Herbert, his voice rising into a kind of 
threatening wail, ‘ thongh you have made 
me miserable, I am not yet content 
with my misery. And though I, too, 
have said in my heart that there is no 
God, and that there is no more profit 
in wisdom than in folly, yet there is one 
folly that I will not give tongue to. I 
will not say Peace, peace, when there is no 
peace. I will not say we are still Chris- 
tians, when we can sip our wine smilingly 
after dinner, and talk about some day de- 
fining the Father ; and I will only pray 
that if such a Father be. He may have 
mercy alike upon those that hate Him, 
because they tcill not see Him ; and on 
those who love and long for Him, although 
they no longer can see Him. ’ 


120 


THE NEW REPUBLIC. 


Mr. Herbert’s voice ceased. The cur- 
tain fell. The whirhvind was over ; the 
fire was over ; and after the fire, from one 
of the side boxes came a still small voice. 
‘ Yery 2^c>or taste — very poor taste. ’ 

It was perceived that Dr. Jenkinson, 
having discovered almost immediately who 
Avas really to be the i)reacher, had stolen 
back silently into the theatre. 


CHAPTER II. 

The following morning Miss Merton 
had risen early, and Avas sauntering sloAvly 
before breakfast uj) and doAvn the broad 
terrace in front of the house. She inhaled 
the fresh delightful air ; she looked over 
the breezy sea : she scanned the splendid 
villa, now shining in the sunlight, Avith its 
marble jDorticoes, and its long rows of win- 
dows ; and she thought over yesterday 
Avith all its conversations and incidents. 
In esf)ecial, she thought of Laurence. She 
thought of him as he Avas now, and as he 
had been in former times, when they had 
known each other so well ; and as she 
thought of him, she sighed. 

‘ And he might do so much,’ she said to 
herself, ‘ and yet he is so Aveak and so 
irresolute ; wasting his time in Paris and 
in London, reading poetry and buying 
pictures, and talking philosoi)hy he doesn’t 
believe in with his dilettanse friends. And 
this place — this lovely place — how often 
does he come here ? What does he do for 
his tenants and dependants — for all who 
ought to look for help to him ? I have no 
patience Avith a man Avho keeps moaning 
about religion as he does, and yet won’t 
act UJ) to the light Avhich he must have. ’ 

Whilst she Avas thus meditating, the 
subject of her meditations appeared ui)on 
the terrace. 

‘You are out early,’ he said. ‘I have 
been just seeing Herbert off. He has had 
to go before everybody else, for he is en 
route for Italy.’ 


‘You look A^ery tired,’ said Miss Merton 
symimthetically. 

‘ Oh, it is nothing,’ said Laurence, turn- 
ing the subject. ‘Did you notice Leslie 
last evening in the garden, and Iioav odd 
his manner Avas ? Do you remember, too, 
the joretty song he sang the iiiglit before, 
and hoAv sur2)rised Ave all Avere at it ? Well, 

I had a letter yesterday, from a friend both 
of his and mine, Avhich exjdains it. The 
heroine of the song Avas.iiot an ideal young- 
lady, though Avhether one can call her real 
any longer is more than I can say. She is 
dead. I don’t know all the story ; but my 
friend just gave me the outline, and eii- • 
closed a note for Leslie, to tell the news 
to him himself. He never fancies he feels 
anything ; but what he Avon’t admit to 
himself, his manner, I am sure admitted 
to me, and I dare say to you too. ’ 

‘Yes,’ said Miss Merton thoughtfully, 

‘ I felt sure it must be something of that 
kind. But you, ’ she said, turning to Laur- 
ence, ‘ how utterly tired and Avorn-out you 
look.’ 

‘To say the very truth,’ Laurence an- 
swered, ‘ I slejAt very little* last night. I 
Avas thinking* of our culture and our en- 
lightenment. I Avas thinking of — God 
knoAVS Avhat ; and Avhy should I tell you ? 
I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘ that Ave’re all breaking 
up to-day. I Avish Ave could have kejjt the 
party together for a little longer. I don’t 
knoAV Avhat I shall do. I can’t stoj) here ; 

I shan’t go to London — I hate London. I 
had almost resolved, an hour ago, to go 
off to Italy Avith Herbert.’ 

‘ By Avay of finding some duty to do ?’ 
asked Miss Merton quietly. 

‘ I have no duties said Lawrence. ‘Didn’t 
Herbert Axry truly tell us so last night ? 
But in Italy I should at least forget that I 
ever might have had any. And I should 
be then, at any rate, Avith a congenial 
friend. Herbert and I, you see, are two 
fools. We both of us Avant to pray, and 
Ave neither of us can. ’ 

There Avas a long pause. _ At last Miss 


THE NEW BEPUBLIC. 


121 


Merton said with some embarrassment, 
stooping as slie did to smell a geranium : 

‘ I’m sure I wish I could be of any use 
to you ; but really I don’t quite see how I 
can. ’ 

There was another pause. At last Laur- 
ence said in a very low tone : 

‘ I cannot i>ray, because I do not believe 
in God. Will you pray for me ?’ 

Miss Merton turned and looked at him 
with a soft, serious^ smile. 

‘ I did last night, if you wish very much 
to know,’ slie said, and her cheek grew 
slowly tinted with an unconscious blush. 

‘ Did you ?’ exclaimed Laurence with a 
sudden eagerness. ‘Then^if you cared 
enough for me to do that, will you care 
enough for me to do something far belter 
than pra} ing for me ? Will you — ’ he said, 
pausing and looking at her ; ‘ will you — ’ 
But at that instant the gong for breakfast 
sounded, and the sentence died unfinished. 
Both he and she were perhaps a little grate- 
ful for this interruption. It relieved a sud- 
den sense of shyness that had become pain- 
ful, and to all intents and jourposes their 
looks had already said all that need be 
said. It might, both felt, be securely left 
- to find its Avay into words at a more con- 
venient season. In another moment they 
were in the midst of that most matter-of- 
fact bustle that precedes in country-houses 
the settling down to breakfast of a large 
party. 

‘Well, Mr. Laurence,’ exclaimed Lady 
x\mbrose, ‘ all pleasant things come to an 
end at last. But this visit to you has 
really been positively delightful. And 
now, you must be careful not to forget me 
— ^that we are expecting you in September 
in Gloucestershire, to take ]jart in our 
private theatricals. B^^-the-by, ’ she added, 
sinking her voice to a fit of solemnity, ‘ I 
think I told you, didn’t I, how ill the i)oor 

Duchess of had been last week, though 

she’s better now, I am haj^p}^ to hear this 
morning. Ham — tongue — i)igeon-pie — or 
omelette,’ she went on, as she sat down at 


j the table ; ‘ why amongst all this host of 
good things, I don’t really know what to 
choose. Well, sui)iJose, Mr. Laurence, 
you were to bring me just the little — least 
bit of omelette. My dear,’ she whisx)ered 
to Miss Merton, who was on one side of 
her, ‘ what a dreadful blowing-up Mr. 
Herbert gave us last night, didn’t he ? 
Now that, you know, I think is all very 
well in a sermon, but in a lecture, where 
the things are supposed to be taken mpre 
or less literally, I think it is a little out of 
l^lace. ’ 

‘Did you 'say just now,’ said Leslie, 
who found himself on the other side of 

Lady Ambrose, ‘ that the Duchess of 

was ill ?’ 

‘ Oh, it was just something I was telling 
Mr. Laurence, ’ said Lady Ambrose coldly. 

‘ She’s much better now, thank you. — 
Do you know her ?’ 

‘ She’s my aunt,’ said Leslie. 

Lady Ambrose turned round and looked 
Leslie full in the face. As she looked a 
smile began to dimple her cheek, and 
light up her sweet grey eyes. 

‘ You dot it say so !’ said exclaimed at 
last. ‘Why, of course you arc. How stu- 
pid of me not to have found that out be- 
fore. To be sure — you and the redoubtable 
Eton boy, who made such a dreadful com- 
motion at Daleham by wanting to run 
away with the nursery governess. And to 
think that I have only discovered you at 
this last moment, when we are all of us 
going to say good-bye !’ 

‘ Your carriage is at the door, my Lady, ’ 
said a servant. 

‘ Already !’ said Lady Ambrose. ‘ How 
time flies ! Dr. Jenkinson, you and I are 
going to the train together, I believe. And 
now, Mr. Leslie,’ she went on, ‘ IMr. Ijaur- 
eiice is coming to us, in September, for 
some private theatricals. I doiiT know if 
you do anything in that way yourself. But 
perhaps if you are in England, and have 
no better engagements, you will come with 
him. At any rate, if you won’t, please to 


122 


THE NEW KEPUBLIC. 


remember I shall think it very ill-natured 
of you.’ 

* Thank you,* said Leslie smiling, T am 
not ill-natured.* 

‘ I’m quite ready, Lady Ambrose, if you 
are,* said Dr. Jenkinson briskly : and now, 
Laurence,* he said, as he was standing in 
the portico, whilst Lady Ambrose was get- 
ting into the carriage, ‘ good-bye ; I have 
had a most pleasant visit. But as to your 
Utopia, your ideal of the future — * he add- 
ed confidentially, ‘ it has been said, fool- 
ishly enough, that God was the Brocken- 
phantom of self, projected on the mists of 


the non-ego. Well — your Utopia was the 
Brocken-phantom of the present, project- 
ed on the mists of the impracticable. It 
was simply the present with its homelier 
details left out. Good-bye — good-bye. * 

‘ Then in that case, * said Laurence, as 
he bade adieu to the Doctor, * it is a com- 
fort to know' from you that the Present, as 
it is, is the highest state of things concei- 
able.* 

‘Good-bye,* said Lady Ambrose, wuth a 
smile in her beautiful frank eyes. ‘ Good- 
bye, Mr. Leslie, and mind that you don’t 
forget September.* 


3>a"OT7^ 


THE 



m and 



irfftnta: 


♦ ♦ ♦ 


OR, 


Positivism on an Island, 


BY W. H. MALLOCK, Autlior of the “New Republic.’’ 
Crown, 8vo., heavy paper covers, - - - - 10 cents. 

“Never since the days of Svift has saxibe gone steaightee to the maek. 
London Whitehall Review. 


Every page of this book sparkles with genuine wit and humor 
and the brilliant sentences of Tyndall and Harrison are made to 
turn to ridicule their own doctrines. It is a book that will wel, 
repay perusal. 

Sent, postage pre-paid, on receipt of price, by 


GEO. W. FITCH, PuBLisHKB, 


60 Andrews St., Rochester, N. Y. 


The demand for good literature in a cheap form is constantly 
increasing. In offering to the public these numbers of “ Fitch’s 
Popular Library,” I would say that none but the works ot first 
class authors will be permitted to be introduced. The library 
will consist of choice works of Fiction, Poems, Essays, etc., etc. 
Every book will be printed in clear, bold type and bound in uni- 
form size with the present number. It shall be in all respects a 
Popular Library and worthy the patronage of the people. 




THE FROZEN DEEP, 

BY WILKIE COLLINS. ' 

AUTHOK OF “no NAME,” “THE WOMAN IN WHITE,” “MAN AND ^VIFE,” ETC. ' 

Crown, 8vo., liOcavy paper covers, Price, 12 cents. 

Sent, postage i)ie-p-iid, oh receipt of price, by 

GEO. W. FITCH, Publisher, 

60 Andrews St., Rochester, N. Y. 


This is a book of intense interest, written with a dramatic power only possessed by 
Collins. 

“Wilkie Collins has no living superior in the art of constructing a story * * ♦ * 

in his own dominion he stands without a rival.”- W. Y. Kvenimj Post. 

“ Mr. Collins possesses the art of fixing his readers’ attention throughout the whole 
of narrative of intrigue, in a higher degree, peraups, than any other English author, — 
Atheyut^um, London. 

“ Me is a great master of mystery, and can so hide a secret in a wrappage of circum- 
stances, that, before it is discovered, the whole tissue must be unravelled.” — Chamber. s' En- 
cyclopedia. 


L JILT, 

BY CHARLES READE. 

AUTHOR W “PEG WOFFINGTON,” “A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION,” “FOUL PLAY,” 

“hard cash,” etc. 

Crown 8vo. — heavy paper covers... Price, 10 cents. 

Sent, iiostage ine-paid, on recei})t of price, by 

GEORGE W. FITCH, Publisher, 

60 Andrews St., Rochester, N. Y. 



“Reade is, Ly cominon consent, a writer of marked ability. He has much of 
the true character of the raconteur, along with considerable dramatic instinct.” — 

Chambers' Ehieyclope^ Ha. 

“Mr. Reiulo is one of tlio most vigorous of modern writers of fiction. And in 
alibis works he has a high moral aim, as the exposure of some evil that demands 
correction.” — N. V. Observer. 

“ Charles Ileade’s works all deserve the widest circle of readers within whose 
reach they can be brought.” — N. Y. Times. 


3sro"tA7' 


LEILA; 

OR. 

THE SIEGE OF GRANADA, 

A NOVEL, 

BY THE RIGHT HON. LORD LYTTON. 

Crown, 8v(n, lieavy paper covers, - - Price, 1.5 cents. 


This story, laid in one of the most romantic periods of Span- 
ish history — tlie Sie»e of Granada, is tilled with jdot and coun- 
ter-plot, and fi'om the opening chapter to the close of the book 
the gifted pen of Bulwer holds untlagging the interest of the 
reader. 

Sent, postage prepaid, on receipt of price, by 

GEORGE W. FITCH. 

PUBLISHER, 

60 Andrews St., Rochester, N. Y. 




LADY HESTER; 

grsnhifi ^arriim^, 

JBy CTurrlotte '^onge. 

Crown, 8vo., heavy paper covers, Price, 12 cents. 


Sent postage pre-paid, on receipt of price, by 

GEO. W. FITCH, Publisher. 

GO Andrews St., Rochester, N. Y. 




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UBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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